It was only a few minutes before our little company broke up when Mr. Furvell rose to go. Charlie took advantage of the confusion to suggest that we two should retire to the parlour. "And you'll sing for me," he said.
Half-way along the hall he remarked merrily: "Now's your chance to begin your book, dear. Put your elder in it—and make the Edinburgh parson die of a broken heart—and put me somewhere in the introduction."
"Maybe I will," I answered a little defiantly. "You think I can't write, don't you?"
"You could do anything you like with anything—or anybody," he answered gallantly; "but don't begin your literary work till we come back from Europe," and his voice was all thrilling as he spoke, his eyes ardent as they turned on me. And his hand went out and rested lovingly on mine as I turned the music over—for we were now at the piano—and I wondered why it was that I didn't lean forward like he did with eager outstretched arms. But I didn't. Yet he kissed me—then I said I was going to sing, as he had asked me, so it was all over in a minute.
"Sing that about the tresses," he whispered, bending over me. So I did as he bade me. And the words came softly:
"Still must you call me tender names,
Still gently stroke my tresses."
But somehow I kept thinking about the elder that was so soon to come. I know not why—it was through no will of mine—but the elder would take shape before me as about five-and-twenty years of age; and he was fair; and his accent was like to that of the Scotch Carlyle; and he had a low-crowned hat of felt—and a coat of clerical design.
V
AN ALTERNATIVE
Some things never happen more than once. And these one never can forget.