her boudoir. She
liberated the imprisoned currents up in the little mediaeval lanterns. She
drew the blinds so that she should feel quite alone. She had put on one of
the dresses which made her look specially slim and soft and childlike. She
knew the garment became her, because it always brought a tender expression
to Harboro's eyes.

And then she sat down and waited.

At eight o'clock Runyon came. So faint was his summons at the door that it
might have been a lost bird fluttering in the dark. But Sylvia heard it.
She descended and opened the door for him. In the dimly lighted hall she
whispered: "Are you sure nobody saw you come?"

He took both her hands into his and replied: "Nobody!"

They mounted the steps like two children, playing a slightly hazardous
game. "The cat's away," she said, her eyes beaming with joy.

He did not respond in words but his eyes completed the old saying.

They went up into the boudoir, and he put away his coat and hat.

They tried to talk, each seeking to create the impression that what was
being said was quite important. But neither heard what the other said.
They were like people talking in a storm or in a house that is burning
down.

He took his place at the piano after a while. It seemed that he had
promised to sing for her--for her alone. He glanced apprehensively toward
the windows, as if to estimate the distance which separated him from the
highway. It was no part of their plan that he should be heard singing in
Sylvia's room by casual passers-by on the Quemado Road.

He touched the keys lightly and when he sang his voice seemed scarcely to
carry across the room. There was a rapid passage on the keyboard, like the
patter of a pony's hoofs in the distance, and then the words came:

"From the desert I come to thee
On my Arab shod with fire...."

It was a work of art in miniature. The crescendo passages were sung
relatively with that introductory golden whisper as a standard. For the
moment Sylvia forgot that the singer's shoulders were beautifully compact
and vigorous. She was visualizing the Bedouin who came on his horse to
declare his passion.

"And I faint in thy disdain!..."

She stood near him, spellbound by the animation of his face, the seeming
reality of his plea. He was not a singer; he was the Bedouin lover.

There was a fanatic ardor in the last phrase:

"Till the leaves of the Judgment