“Well?”
“You don’t mind my calling you Darcy, do you?”
“N-n-no, I like it.”
“I wonder if you’ll mind what I’m going to say now.”
“I don’t believe I should mind anything you would say.”
“It’s about the little song. The one that you set right for me.”
“Our song.”
“Our song,” he repeated with a wistful emphasis on the pronoun. “Darcy, you won’t sing that—to him—will you?”
“No,” she said. Her eyes were dimly troubled and would not meet his. “I won’t sing that—to any one—again.”
“Thank you,” he said humbly.