It was the last evening before his departure, and Lady Dorothy had
played for him for an hour; played little melodies from _La Bohème_,
lesser gems from _Chu Chin Chow_, and twice had explored the delightful
memories of Gilbert and Sullivan. Once he sang very softly to her
accompaniment, and when they finished she turned abruptly to him.
"You have a voice," she said.
"You play beautifully," he answered.
"It is easy to play when an artist is listening."
"Have you found that, too?"
She turned to the piano and softly fingered the opening strains of
Rudolpho's aria in the first act of _La Bohème_.
"It is just a matter of personality," he said softly. "One woman chokes
a man's artistry; another reveals the heights which are in his soul. I
suppose it is the same with men?"
She played on in silence for a few moments, then murmured, "What
happened to the statue when it came to life?"
"You mean Galatea?"
She nodded her head.
"I don't know," he said pensively. "I have quite forgotten the ending."
She went on playing, and in the soothing light of the music-room she
made a picture that lingered for months in his memory.
"Some day I will tell you," she said suddenly. "Here are mother and
dad."
That night, while in the act of disrobing, he heard the calm knock of
Mr. Watkins at his door.
"Come in," he said. "I am going at seven to-morrow morning."
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Watkins carefully placed a pitcher of hot water on the stand.
"Are you married, Watkins?"
The butler considered deferentially. "No, sir," he said, after mature
reflection.
"You ought to be," said the American.