Her voice had all the melancholy notes of the woodwind in the unseen shepherd's lament in "Tristan und Isolde."
"I don't know how to tell you," she exclaimed tragically, after a pause. "I shan't be here to-morrow. It's a bitter disappointment. My aunt in Wales is dying. I have been telegraphed for, and I must go."
She sat on the end of the couch where I was lounging, and took my hands.
"It isn't my fault."
My spirits fell headlong.
"I would just as soon keep blind," said I blankly.
"I thought you would say that."
A tear dropped on my hand. I felt that it was brutal of her aunt to make Valerie cry. Why could she not postpone her demise to a more suitable opportunity? I murmured, however, a few decent words of condolence.
"Thank you, Mr. Winter," said Valerie. "I am fond of my aunt; but I had set my heart on your seeing me. And she may not die for weeks and weeks! She was dying for ever so long last year, and got round again."
I ventured an arm about her shoulders, and spoke consolingly. The day would come when our eyes would meet. I called her Valerie and bade her address me as Harold.