“Why?”
“Your following me,” she explained, the corners of her mouth smiling. “I had turned away—”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” said Orde.
“And you always get what you want,” she repeated. “Well?” she conceded, with a shrug of mock resignation. But the four other men here cut in with a demand.
“Music!” they clamoured. “We want music!”
With a nod, Miss Bishop turned to the piano, sweeping aside her white draperies as she sat. She struck a few soft chords, and then, her long hands wandering idly and softly up and down the keys, she smiled at them over her shoulder.
“What shall it be?” she inquired.
Some one thrust an open song-book on the rack in front of her. The others gathered close about, leaning forward to see.
Song followed song, at first quickly, then at longer intervals. At last the members of the chorus dropped away one by one to occupations of their own. The girl still sat at the piano, her head thrown back idly, her hands wandering softly in and out of melodies and modulations. Watching her, Orde finally saw only the shimmer of her white figure, and the white outline of her head and throat. All the rest of the room was gray from the concentration of his gaze. At last her hands fell in her lap. She sat looking straight ahead of her.
Orde at once arose and came to her.