All this time Fan had said nothing, nor did she speak when he had finished his story. Nor did he wish it; the strange trouble and pallor had passed away, and there was a tender light in her eyes that was better than speech.
They rose and moved slowly towards the house. The drawing-room was lighted, and the guests were now gathering there to listen to a lady at the piano singing. They could hear her plainly enough, for her voice, said to be soprano, was exceedingly shrill, and she was singing, Tell me, my heart—a difficult thing, all flourishes, and she rendered it like an automaton lark with its internal machinery gone wrong.
“Shall we go in?” said Fan.
“Yes, Miss Eden, if you wish; but don't you think we can hear this song best where we are? I find it hard to ask you a question I have had in my mind for some minutes, but I must ask it. Are you still with Miss Starbrow?”
“Oh, no; we separated a long time ago, and for very long—nearly eighteen months—I never heard from her.”
“I hope you will not think it an impertinent question; but—there must have been some very serious reason to have kept you apart so long?”
“No, scarcely that. I have always felt the same towards her. She did so much for me. It was only a misunderstanding.”
“And now?”
“Now I am so glad to say that it is all over, and that she is my dearest friend.”
“And is she still living at Dawson Place—and single?”