À la rive fidèle
Où l’on aime toujours.
—Cette rive, ma chère,
On ne la connaît guère
Au pays des amours.”
When she had finished, she looked up at him, as he leaned over the tail of the piano, with laughter in her eyes.
“I adore that song. It is so lovely and irresponsible. Canon Chisely says it is cynical. But it always puts me in mind of a dragonfly.”
“I am afraid Everard is right,” replied Joyce, with a smile. “But if you live in the fairyland of love, constancy must be a serious hindrance to affairs.”
“Oh, now you talk just as you used to!” cried Yvonne, “I ’ll sing you something else.” She scamped the prelude in her impulsive way, and began, “Coming thro’ the Rye.” His black mood was lifted. The tender, mischievous charm of her voice held him in a spell, and he smiled at her like “a’ the lads” in the song.
“Now it is your turn,” she said, reaching towards a pile of songs. “Help me to choose one.”