Tory recognized the Andante from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. She had heard it played by an orchestra and appreciated that the music was too great for Lance’s meager training.
Still, there was something in his playing that held her spellbound and brought tears to her eyes and to Dorothy’s, who now had completely forgotten her discomfort of a short time before.
One heard the movement that sounds like the rippling of many waters, then the siren call from the depth of the water and of life itself. At last the beautiful, triumphant finale.
When Lance McClain ended he dropped his head on his hands.
“Lance!” Dorothy said softly.
This time Lance jumped up as if in a sudden panic of fear.
“Good gracious, Dot! It can’t be you! I am not dreaming! I have had several confounded dreams about you and father and Don lately. But you must be real, because here is Tory with you and it may not be polite of me, but I am obliged to say I have not dreamed about her. Who told you where to find me? I am as mad as a hornet and gladder than I have ever been over more than one or two things in my life.
“You did not hear me trying to murder that Andante, did you? I hope not. Wasn’t it awful the mistakes I made?”
This was Lance, there was no doubting it, trying to carry off a difficult and painful situation with his old humor.
Nevertheless he kept his arm tight about Dorothy’s shoulders and at this instant buried his head in her shoulder like a child.