"Well,—why not do it?" said his stare.
She pressed her round, fresh face against the flowers.
"I don't like to go in. Fact is—he's singing one of those songs of his, the songs in the new piece he is writing. If there is one thing that riles him"
Sorrell pulled out his watch.
"Half-past six. I don't think he'll mind. Not to-night."
"Well,—you come and open the door for me."
"All right. I will."
They paused in the passage to listen to Thomas Roland's singing. He was in a gaillard mood, and his deep voice seemed to carry more than the mere burden of the song, for it was the voice of a man who was happy. A generous voice, it swept Sorrell back in a flash to the day when Roland had arrived in that claret-coloured car, and to his own struggles with Florence Palfrey and the confusion of the Angel Inn. Thomas Roland sang as though he had no regrets, and with the voice of a sea-rover.
Sorrell raised a hand,—but Fanny Garland held up a finger. She wanted to hear the whole of the song.
On a hill—on a hill.
Its walls were white and its windows blue,
And round about it orange trees grew,
Above the sea—so still—so still."
The great posy of flowers breathed on Fanny Garland's bosom. She looked at Sorrell, and moved a hand in time to the music, but Sorrell's eyes were not seeing her. The memories of the past were winding upwards to the triumphant peak of the day's good hope, and through all these memories of uplift and endeavour Thomas Roland's voice sounded like the voice of a romantic rover. Some men brought good luck, a happy concatenation of circumstances. They willed good things.
Fanny was nodding at him.
"Now—you dreamer—now," said her smile.
There was a pause in the singing, and Sorrell knocked.
"Come in."
Roland sang the words, and the opening door showed him sitting at the piano, with the old gold curtains framing the green of the garden. He seemed to glow, and as he looked at Sorrell his eyes had a mischievous tenderness.
