“Go and sing,” repeated Anne.
Sylvia went laughing to the piano. “I feel awfully happy. I must think of something that suits.”
She considered a moment, and then broke into a gay little love-song, with a charming refrain.
Anne listened, and as she listened, her determination grew. Sylvia was right. She must go. Her voice was worth cultivating, even at the price of parental displeasure.
“Thank you dear,” she said as the clear, ringing notes ceased. “I feel as though a nightingale with brains had been kind enough to fly into my room.”
“What else would you like?” Sylvia turned her head as she sat at the piano, playing rippling notes with her left hand. The cloud had left her face, and her parted red lips were very sweet.
Anne hesitated a moment. “You read music easily, don’t you? I wonder whether you could sing me a little French song?”
She got up, and opening a cupboard in the wall, began to turn over some papers.
“Here it is,” she said at last.
Sylvia left her place, and knelt beside her friends chair, taking the music from her hand.