Page:Weird Tales volume 32 number 05.djvu/74

594 of friendships forged for lifetime service with the underlie of mutual interest for an anvil and the thousand incidents of college life for hammer-strokes. Abruptly through the welter of mixed music came the strains of Abernathy's alma mater song, and he squared his shoulders as involuntarily as the veteran soldier comes to attention when he hears a bugle sounding To the Colors.

It was not until the verse had been played through and the rousing, stirring chorus sounded that he realized she was singing. The words came naturally, unbidden, spontaneously as breath. In a high, thin, sweet soprano—her voice, even in speaking, was so high it would have seemed an affectation in another woman—she was humming:

He looked at her, astounded, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth like a little girl discovered in a naughty prank. A quick flush, bright as ripened quince, stained her throat and cheeks.

"You—you know 'Lord Jeff'?" he stammered.

She nodded, slowly.

"How did—did the American who taught you English teach you that tune, too?"

A change came over her flushed face. As if it were a pondering thing she dropped her mask of gayety, and the effect was swift as sunset in the tropics. For no apparent reason she was trembling; so weak she leant against him for support.

"Take me home, please, Hugh! I'm tired," she whispered.

personality possessed as many facets as a diamond. Save for the Saracenic cartouche cut in celadon which graced the little finger of her right hand, there was nothing of the Orient about her. Her costumes were the smartest to be had from Molyneux, Mainbocher or Schiaparelli; the stark simplicity with which her hair was done spoke hours of consultation with the coiffeurs of the Ritz; her speech revealed the sometimes slurred, sometimes sharp-cut accent that is peculiar to the cultured native of New England. Yet at times her dress and speech and manner seemed to be a scrupulously adjusted masquerade which sometimes lifted for an instant and revealed another being. Her eyes, particularly. Once, as they rested between dances in the King Cole Room, she laid her hand across her mouth and chin while patting back the vestige of a yawn, and instantly her whole aspect changed. Above the creamy, rose-tipped fingers looked the eyes of a veiled woman of the harem, languishing, seductive, passionate—eyes such as he had seen above the haiks of Arab women in the Kasbah of Algiers or the souk at Tugurt.

She took frank pleasure in his company. Never did she put him off or plead business or indisposition when he asked for an appointment, and when he called she met him with a smile and ready handclasp; she always seemed regretful when they parted. But though she showed her liking for him openly she shrank from all but formal contacts. She laid her hand in his at greeting, gave it to him when they said good-by, melted pliantly into his arms when dancing, but never had she laid her hand on him in animated conversation. When once or twice he impulsively took her fingers into his as they walked she had gently disengaged the grip, not