Stanford listened to it, his sunny face overcast.
"Why did you sing that?" he asked abruptly, when she had done.
"Don't you like it?"
"No; I don't like cynicism set to music. Here is a French chansonnette—sing me that."
Kate sang for him song after song. The momentary pain the announcement of his departure had given her wore away.
"It is natural he should like change," she thought, "and it is dull here. I am glad he is going to Ottawa, and yet I shall miss him. Dear Reginald! What would life be worth without you?"
The period of M. La Touche's stay was rapidly drawing to a close. March was at its end, too—it was the last night of the month. The eve of departure was celebrated at Danton Hall by a social party. The elder Misses Danton on that occasion were as lovely and as much admired as ever, and Messrs. Stanford and La Touche were envied by more than one gentleman present. Grace's engagement to the Captain had got wind, and she shared the interest with her step-daughters-elect.
Early next morning the two young men left. There was breakfast almost before it was light, and everybody got up to see them off. It was a most depressing morning. March had gone out like an idiotic lamb, and April came in in sapping rain and enervating mist. Ceaselessly the rain beat against the window-glass, and the wind had a desolate echo that sounded far more like winter than spring.
Pale, in the dismal morning-light, Kate and Rose Danton bade their lovers adieu, and watched them drive down the dripping avenue and disappear.
An hour before he had come down stairs that morning, Mr. Stanford had written a letter. It was very short: