“Hospitality to the shipwrecked,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale as she crossed the track toward the village.
Late afternoon, darkening into wilder winds and harsher rain, brought the hostess back to her lodge dripping and weary. On a bearskin before the smouldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind her head, her eyes half closed and dreamy. Without directly responding to the other’s salutation she said:
“Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?”
“What is it?”
“I’m tired,” said Io. “So tired!”
“Stay, of course,” responded the hostess, answering the implication heartily, “as long as you will.”
“Only two or three days, until I recover the will to do something. You’re awfully kind.” Io looked very young and childlike, with her languid, mobile face irradiated by the half-light of the fire. “Perhaps you’ll play for me sometime.”
“Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of my hands.”
“Thank you. And sing?” suggested the girl diffidently.
A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman’s face. “No,” she said harshly. “I sing for no one.”