In the quiet of that corner of the hotel balcony she smiled at these remembrances of her nonsense that night. She had started the young people playing their favourite games of “Whisper,” “Amsterdam,” etc., in two or three of the smaller rooms; then had raced away again to the room where the adults were sitting squarely against the wall, as grim as “brazen images.” Dropping on to the piano stool, she struck a few soft, tender notes, suggestive of some very gracious hymn, then suddenly broke into song:
“Oh, dat’s so! Oh, dat’s so!
Dar is nuffing ’neath de moon dat’ll satisfy dis coon.
Like a K—I—double S, kiss,
Since dat Cupid, wid his dart, made a keyhole in my heart
For dat M—I—double S, miss.”
Behind a corner of the curtain the young pastor had watched and listened. He had thought his presence unknown to her. He was mistaken.
For three-quarters of an hour she had been the life of that room. Then, suddenly, as she was singing at the piano, the room grew very quiet. She was aroused by a voice just behind her ear, saying:
“Miss Finisterre, are you going to supper with this first batch, or will you wait the next turn?”
Turning, she found herself face to face with the young pastor, the room being otherwise empty. His gaze was very warm, very ardent. She had flushed under the power of that gaze.