“Oh!” Barron looked relieved. “Now see here, old man—you’re there to rest, not to get excited. Dr. Thomas said you were to do no talking or even thinking for two hours.”
“Dr. Thomas go to the devil. That voice—who is it?”
“Little Honor Mannering, next door. It’s a fine voice—yet——”
“Exactly,” McIvor caught him up. “Something lacking. But a great music machine, the throat that’s doing that peaches and cream. I want her to sing for me. I want to see what’s the trouble—why that voice isn’t a miracle. Can you get her to——”
Barron was looking into the sunlight of his drive. “Here she comes,” he said.
The white, tall, thin figure was moving, facile of movement as the voice, up the broad gravel; the shallow basket, rioting color, swept casually back and forth in the girl’s hand. Barron went down the steps.
“For Mr. McIvor,” she called, swinging the mass of reds and pinks at him as she came. “I wish they were better. They’re all we have, but they’re only common roses.”
“The sweetest kind,” said Barron, and the girl stood gazing at him, her eyes shining with the romance of bringing flowers to a hero.
“When’s he coming?” she demanded. “I’m going to stand in our garden and sing and sing till he asks me to do ‘Carmen’ for him. Do tell him to, Mr. Barron. When’s he coming?”
“He’s here,” some one spoke from the gallery, back of the flower-boxes. The girl stood rooted. “And ‘Carmen’ has been sung by worse voices. Seldom better.”