What kind of a
part is it? Shall you wear yellow gowns?
I hope so."
He was looking at her round slender figure,
as she stood by the piano, turning over a
pile of music, and he felt the energy in every
line of it.
"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.
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