The aria enveloped them and for a moment Cassy trilled in.
"Perhaps to-morrow you will sing for me," he continued.
"Yes, I'll sing."
Later, in the black room on the white bed, the fat tenor's tuneful
prayer floated just above her. Cassy repeated the words and told herself
she was silly. She may have been, but also she was tired. She knew it
and for a moment wondered why. Painted hours dancing to jewelled harps
are not to be sneezed at. But when they are not yours, when you have
really no right to them, it is not fatiguing to say so. A gesture does
not fatigue. It is certainly taxing to go to a greasy office, sign your
name and receive a cheque. Taxing but endurable. It is not that that
does you up. It is argument that tires you, particularly when there is
no need for any and you are forced to turn yourself inside out. How
fortunate it was, though, that the room had been dark! In the balm of
that, sleep took her.
The next day she had many things to do and succeeded in botching most of
them. I have no mind for anything, she decided. What is the matter with
me? But, at least, when at last she opened the door for him, there was
nothing amiss with her appearance.
In the room where the piano was, she sat down on the bench and smiled up
at him. "Shall I sing now?"