The afternoon light, slanting in through the further unshaded window, fell full upon her, and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the smiling softness of her lips. To have demanded sadness of her would have been an act of unreason.

“Something bright,” said Joyce, instinctively.

She ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a barcarolle of Théophile Gautier.

"Dites, la jeune belle,

Où voulez-vous aller?

La voile ouvre son aile,

La brise va souffler!

L’aviron est d’ivoire.

Le pavillon de moire,

Le gouvernail d’or fin;