“But, Gloria—”
“Oh, it’s been a heap suddener for Gloria. In fact she only—I only got the word to-day. And here I am.” He examined the girl’s troubled face. “You don’t look exactly pleased,” he added, crestfallen.
“Indeed, you mustn’t think that,” she cried earnestly. “But I—I—I thought it was Mr. Remsen.” In her bewilderment she blundered on. “I saw her k-k-k-” Too late she strove to catch herself on the brink of a shameful betrayal.
“You saw her kiss Jack,” he interpreted, smiling. “He’s a sort of a third cousin or something, and a privileged character, anyway.”
“I didn’t know,” answered the girl. Then, recovering herself: “Oh, Mr. Harmon, I am so glad. I believe you’re just as fine as Gloria is—and that’s the most any one could say.”
“My dear,” he said more gravely. “Nobody on earth is that. But—well, I want to shout and sing and—Play your music again, won’t you? Maybe that’ll help.”
Maybe, thought Darcy, it would help her, too; for she also wanted to shout and sing, and, most contradictorily, to hide and cry—and wait.
Forgetful, in the turmoil of her mind, of the pledge to Jack Remsen about the little song which was to be their one keepsake of those enchanted days in the mountains, she turned back to the piano and hummed the melody.
“It’s built for a second part,” commented Harmon. “Do you mind if I try it?”
So she went over it again, and he struck in, in a clear, charming barytone, and with a singularly happy inspiration of a tenor part. Over and over it they went, she suggesting, and he perfecting his second; and they were still at it when the door opened again, upon deaf ears.