sang The Girl, and fear struck him chill.
Not that—not that! The mere suggestion emptied his life. The Bachelor impulsively reached out and closed his hand over his companion’s, which was resting on the bench between them.
“Dear”—he breathed rather than spoke, and The Single Lady turned her eyes from their dreamy contemplation of something far away, to his, but they did not look startled. It was easily supposed that she, too, had listened to the music which was as the music of Isolde—“strangely-gentle, love-persuading”—and had also seen visions. Yet they remained silent, harkening to the melody, which was “saying all things” so immeasurably well. It ceased, but the spell still held them. The arc-light came on and disputed the reign of the moonlight with its cold white glare, but the illumination of their world was still rose.
The Girl Who Sang came out on the gallery, a frivolous whirlwind of frills and furbelows, humming the end of her song, “Because I love you, dear, because I love you.” It was adequate phrasing of the story of life.
The Girl halted before them and swept them with comprehensive eyes.
“Oh—” she said, her tone mischievous, daring, “o-h!”
The Single Lady looked down at their clasped hands with a sudden sensing of the conventions. She made a movement of withdrawal, but The Bachelor held her slender fingers fast. She looked up and met his eyes. She saw in them a compelling force strangely mingled with pleading and question.
“Yes—why—yes,” The Single Lady said, in happy confusion.
“Yes. Of course!” said The Bachelor, in happy decision.