Say, how am dat for high?”
But Gertrude had, after singing the melody, pushed the copy under a pile
of music, and had risen from the piano to receive her visitor, at the
same time ringing for tea.
He apologised for interrupting her at the piano.
“If I had only known that you were singing, I should certainly
have--well, not exactly, stayed away; no, I should have come sooner, and
remained a worshipper in the outer court.”
“Oh, I wasn’t singing--not regularly singing,” said she, with a laugh.
“Trying over stupid songs about lovers’ partings is not singing, Dr
Koomadhi.”
“Lovers’ partings?” said he. “They seem particularly well adapted to
lyrical treatment.”
“The songs at any rate are heart-breaking,” said she.
“They represent the most acute stage of the lovers’ feelings, then?”
said he.
“I daresay. I suppose there are degrees of feelings even of lovers.”
“I’m sure of it, Miss Hope.”
He was seated in a wicker chair; she had thrown herself into another--a
seat that gave her the appearance of lying in a hammock. He scanned her
from her white forehead down to the dainty feet that crossed one another
on the sloping support of cane-work. She would have been looked on as a
very pretty girl in a London drawing-room; and even a girl who would be
regarded as commonplace there would pass as a marvel of loveliness on
the West Coast of Africa.
“Yes,” continued Dr Koomadhi, “I’m sure there are degrees of feeling
even among lovers.”
“You are a doctor, and so doubtless have had many opportunities of
diagnosing the disease in all its stages,” said she.
“Yes, I am a doctor,” said he. “I am also a man. I have felt. I feel.”
She gave another laugh.
“A complete conjugation of the verb,” said she. “Past and present
tenses. How about the future?”