If he knew that we owed our summer here to . . . to my knowing. . . ."
Strefford sat silent: she felt his astonished stare through the darkness. "Jove!" he said at last, with a low whistle Susy bent over the balustrade, her heart thumping against the stone rail.
"What of soul was left, I wonder—?" the young composer's voice shrilled through the open windows.
Strefford sank into another silence, from which he roused himself only as Susy turned back toward the lighted threshold.
"Well, my dear, we'll see it through between us; you and I—and Clarissa," he said with his rasping laugh, rising to follow her. He caught her hand and gave it a short pressure as they reentered the drawing-room, where Ellie was saying plaintively to Fred Gillow: "I can never hear that thing sung without wanting to cry like a baby."
