“Did you really like it?” she asked shyly.
“Indeed I did! And I quite fell in love with your voice, too—with that trick you seem to possess of conveying a hint of tears through some little grace-note now and then.... And there were tears hidden in the words; and in the melody, too.... And to think that your mother wrote it!”
“Yes.”
After a short interval of silence he released her hand.
“I have a taxi for you,” he said gaily. “We’ll drive home in state.”
The girl flushed again with surprise and gratitude:
“Are—are you coming, too?”
“Certainly I’m going to take you home. Don’t you belong to me?” he demanded laughingly.
“Yes,” she said. But her forced little smile made the low-voiced answer almost solemn.
“Well, then!” he said cheerfully. “Come along. What’s mine I look after. We’ll have lunch together in the studio, if you are too proud to pose for a poor artist this afternoon.”