They went indoors to the lighted rooms. "You are wearing your amethysts," said Rand, "and the ribbon in your hair—"
She turned upon him a face exquisite in expression. "They are the jewels that you like—the ribbon as I wore it long ago. Come in—come in to supper."
The brief meal ended, they returned to the drawing-room. Rand stood irresolutely. "I have yet a line to write," he told her. "I will do it here at your desk. When I have finished, Jacqueline, then there is something I must say."
He sat down and began to write. She moved to the window, then restlessly back to the lighted room and sat down before the hearth, but in a moment she left this, too, and moved again through the room. She passed her harp, and as she did so, she drew her hand across the strings. The sweet and liquid sound ran through the room. Rand turned. "I have not heard," he said, in a low voice,—"I have not heard that sound since—since last August. Will you sing to me now?"
She touched the harp again. "Yes, Lewis. What shall I sing?"
He rose, walked to the window, and stood with his face to the night. "Sing those verses you sang that night at Fontenoy"; then, as she struck a chord, "No, not To Althea—the other."
She sang. The noble contralto, pure, rich, and deep, swelled through the room.
"The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine"—
Her voice broke and her hands dropped from the strings. She rose quickly and left the harp. "I cannot—I cannot sing to-night. The air is faint—the flowers are too heavy. Come out—come out to the wind and the stars!"
Without the house the evening wind blew cool, moving the long branches of the beech tree, and rustling through the grass. To the west the mountains showed faintly, in the valley a pale streak marked the river. The sky was thick with stars. Behind them, through the open door, they heard the tall clock strike. "I did not tell you," said Jacqueline, "of all my day. Unity was here this afternoon."