Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/211

 and, adding to the pathos of the words, music which alone seemed as if it must light up the flame of romance in cold or old burnt-out hearts, but which roused no appreciable emotion—only a little tepid applause.

People were beginning to go away, and well-known men and women passed down the twisted oak staircase. The fragile-looking young man who had recited remained to the last, and, talking with him, a slender woman, whose dark auburn hair was just slightly turning grey. Her host went with her downstairs, and across the pavement to her carriage.

"When do you leave town?" he said. "You are looking completely done up."

"Ah, well, it will be soon," she answered. "And you?"

"I shall turn up again with the swallows."

It was characteristic of him that he never directly answered questions about himself.

They were holding one another's hands above the closed door of the tall barouche. The sunset, which was making splendid the tree-tops in the Green Park, illumined for them each other's pale face. It was the highest tribute that was ever paid him, that she, a very proud woman, did not mind that he should know she had always loved him.

They had built between each other with respectful hands a wall of silence, across which her eyes had long learnt not to wander, but he saw to-night once more in the brown depths which it was the vogue to call "cold," the gleam of bitter emotion.

He quietly withdrew his hand, and for the first time in their long acquaintanceship she felt for him a slight contempt.

It was an ironical moment.

She wished him to know that in quite a short time she was to die, and that this was truly a last good-bye.

A bugle