"Very good, we will have a duo."
Over the keys her fingers moved, sketching a melody, passing from it
into another.
Beside the bench Lennox had drawn the only chair. He looked about, then
at her.
"I remember so well the first time I came here."
Her lips tightened, but, suppressing the smile, she turned to him and
said and so patiently:
"Is it a song without words you want, or words without song?"
Lennox leaned toward her. It was then or, it might be, never.
"It is you I want."
Cassy turned from him. Her fingers, prompted by a note, had gone from it
into Gounod.
"Will you marry me?"
"Certainly not."
It was as though he had asked her to go skating. To mark the absurdity
of it her voice mounted.
"_Le printemps chasse les hivers----_"
The words are imbecile but the air, which is charming, seemed to occupy
her wholly.
"_Et sourit dans les arbres verts_----"
"I know you don't care for me but couldn't you try?"
"Eh?" Cassy stayed her fingers, reached for a score on the top of the
upright. "I thought you wanted me to sing."
"I want to know whether you can't ever care for me."
It sang about her like a flute. Something else was singing, not the bird
in her throat, for she had hushed it, but a bird in her heart. It had
been singing ever since he had entered the room. It had been singing
with her the duo of which lightly she had spoken. But it was singing too
loud.
Hastily she replaced the score, pulled at another, shoved it back.
"Won't you tell me?" Lennox was asking.
It will burst, she thought. Sidling from the bench, she went to the
sofa, looked at it as though she had never seen it before, and sat down.
"Won't you?" he repeated.
She glanced over at him. Apparently now she was calm as you please.
"People marry out of optimism, or at any rate I did. I have had my
lesson, thank you."