"Oh yes," answered Mrs. Winter for her. "Sing that pretty new song you got yesterday, my love."
"No, no," cried Egerton, eagerly, "an old one for me—dare I ask for 'The Serenade,' if it would not distress you. I have so often longed to hear it again."
"I will try," said Kate; "but—"
She went to the piano, and struck the well-remembered arpeggio chords so long unheard; she strove to steady her voice, as it rose tremulous with its rich sweetness and deep expression; Egerton leant on the piano, wrapt in memory and contemplation. Kate proceeded very well to the end of the first verse; but there, at the sustained note to which her grandfather had so loved to listen, she faltered, paused, and covering her face with both her hands, for an instant, hastily left the room.
She was thoroughly overcome; and, exhausted by the excitement of the day, returned no more that evening.
Colonel Egerton came the next day, and the next, and the next. Mr. and Mrs. Winter, or Mrs. Storey, or some snuffy picture dealer was always there, and he was reduced, malgré lui, to talk of generalities, this constraint gave something of coolness and gravity to his manner; he was often distrait; and Kate felt less calm.
Meanwhile Mrs. O'Toole's letters were filled with the rapturous expectation of a reunion with her Darlint, and could scarce be induced to wait until the time specified for her return by Winter.
Kate was re-reading one of her characteristic epistles one morning after Mr. and Mrs. Winter had departed on some common errand. She had a slight cold, and was ordered by her kind authoritative maestro to keep in doors; they had not been gone many minutes when Egerton came in, carrying a large bouquet of hot-house flowers.
"I have just met Winter, and his cara sposa; they told me you were on the sick list. How is that?"