"No, it isn't a dress-up part. He doesn't seem to fancy me in fine
feathers. He says I ought to be minding the pigs at home, and I suppose
I ought. But he's given me some good Irish songs. Listen."
She sat down at the piano and sang. When she finished, Alexander shook
himself out of a reverie.
"Sing `The Harp That Once,' Hilda. You used to sing it so well."
"Nonsense. Of course I can't really sing, except the way my mother
and grandmother did before me. Most actresses nowadays learn to sing
properly, so I tried a master; but he confused me, just!"
Alexander laughed. "All the same, sing it, Hilda."
Hilda started up from the stool and moved restlessly toward the window.
"It's really too warm in this room to sing. Don't you feel it?"
Alexander went over and opened the window for her. "Aren't you afraid
to let the wind low like that on your neck? Can't I get a scarf or
something?"
"Ask a theatre lady if she's afraid of drafts!" Hilda laughed. "But
perhaps, as I'm so warm--give me your handkerchief. There, just in
front." He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder-straps.
"There, that will do. It looks like a bib." She pushed his hand away
quickly and stood looking out into the deserted square. "Isn't London a
tomb on Sunday night?"
Alexander caught the agitation in her voice. He stood a little behind
her, and tried to steady himself as he said: "It's soft and misty. See
how white the stars are."
For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke.
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