Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. I will teach you how to make that little sufficient. Her husband finally relented. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle.
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