She flushed and her fingers crashed out an indignant chord of protest. Drysdale, drawn by some compelling uneasiness, approached them. Tremaine had been turning over the music as he talked; his ears, sensitive as a cat’s, caught the sound of Drysdale’s footsteps.
“Shall we try this one?” he asked aloud, and placed a sheet on the rack before her.
Without answering, she swept into the prelude.
“‘You’ll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love’s protracted growing;
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April’s sowing.’”…
His voice was an admirable tenor, and he sang the lines with a meaning and expression that brought the warm blood to her cheek. When it was done, he acknowledged the applause with a little bow, casting at Drysdale a glance at once triumphant and ironic. And in that instant, Drysdale knew that the song had not been chosen by chance—that Tremaine had paused to listen at the stair-head. A sudden abyss yawned before him—here was a rival who would pause at nothing; who already had about him a certain air of victory. Drysdale clenched his teeth with a quick breath; well, he would make the fight of his life to keep what he had won!
“More, more!” clamoured Delroy. “You could make your fortune as a stage lover, Tremaine.”
“Ah, there is a difference between the sham and the true!” said Tremaine, in a tone full of meaning. “You are an excellent accompanist, Miss Croydon;
