"It's a fine part—none finer. Once I saw it played magnificently. She was in a travelling company, and she died of typhoid, poor thing! Yes, I can see her now." He acted as he spoke. "She was full of forebodings; her husband was cold; her distress of mind was shown in the way she took up trifles, and put them down again; she spoke she knew not what, and sang snatches of song; in her eyes stood tears; her voice trembled; she moved about uneasily; she clutched at her dress in agitation.
"'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow.'"
"Why," cried the girl, "you make me feel it—you—only with talking about it! And I—alas! Have I any feeling in me at all, Dick?"
"Oh yes, it's there—it's there all right. There's tragedy in the most unpromising materials, if you know how to get at it. I think a woman's got to be in love first. It's a very fine thing for an actress to fall in love—the real thing, I mean. Then comes jealousy, of course. And after that, all the real tragedy emotions."
"Oh, love!" the girl repeated with scorn.
"Try again now; you know the words."
Molly began to repeat the lines—
"My mother had a maid called Barbara;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,
And forsook her; she had a song of 'Willow.'"
She declaimed these lines with certain gestures which had been taught her. She broke off, leaving the rest unfinished.