"And now," Mary heard him say to Paula--"Now fetch out your composer.
Where have you had him hidden all this while?"

"He's in there. I was just waiting until they were really gone. I'll get
him now, though. No, sit still; I'd rather, myself."

March, however, didn't move; not even when they could hear Paula coming
toward the door. He stood gazing thoughtfully at Mary, his eyes luminous
in the dark. It occurred to her that the conversation in the other room
had been in French and that he had not understood it.

"Oh, go--quickly!" she had just time to breathe. Then she crowded back,
close against the partition wall. The door opened that way, so that when
Paula flung it wide it screened her a little.

The singer stood there, a golden glowing thing in the light she had
brought in with her. "Where are you?" she asked. Then she came up to
March and took him by the arms. "Was it good?" she asked. "Was it--a
little--as you meant it to sound?"

When he did not speak, she laughed,--a rich low laugh that had a hint of
tears in it, pulled him up to her and kissed his cheek. "You don't have
to answer, my dear," she said. "Come in and hear what LaChaise has got to
say about it."

Without effort, irresistibly, she swept him along with her into the
music room.

Mary, when they were gone, let herself out by the other door as softly as