“She has known many things, good and evil,” he thought, as his mind noted the intellect that spoke in the changes of time, the regret and the gaiety that the touch demonstrated so surely and easily, as the mood of the composition changed. The music ceased.
“Betty,” a woman's voice said, in English, but with a slight French accent, “I want to see the stars. This awning hides them. Come for a little walk.”
“Yes; I want to see the stars too, and the awning does hide them,” a girl's voice answered. “Do let us take a little walk.”
Bellairs smiled, as he said to himself, “The first voice is the voice of the musician, and the second voice seems to be its echo.” He was still standing on the bank when the two women stepped upon the gangway to the shore and climbed to the narrow path.
As they passed him by they glanced at him rather curiously. One was a woman of about thirty, dark, with a pale, strong-featured face. The other was a fair, aristocratic-looking girl, not more than seventeen.
“She is the echo,” Bellairs thought. “Rather a sweet one.” Then, at a distance, he followed them, and presently found them sitting together in the garden of the Hotel. He sat down not far off. A man, whom he knew slightly, spoke to them, and afterwards crossed to him.
“That lady plays very cleverly,” Bellairs said.
“Mademoiselle Leroux, you mean—yes. You know her?”
“Not at all. I only heard her from the river bank.”