e 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?"

Lennox put his hat on the sofa. "If you don't mind my talking to you."

"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