Part 21 (1/2)
”Then I hope the scissors are sharp, and that Moira carries a steady hand. We have to put up with our own indecisions; those of other people are maddening.”
”Doesn't that depend upon what the decision finally proves to be?” he asked.
Her eyes had gone back to the fire, and her face was very grave.
”No; I would rather know where I am going. Anything is better than drifting; it is a comfort to look steadily forward to the best or to the worst.” Suddenly she roused herself. ”Mr. Thayer, do you realize that it is two months since I have heard you sing?”
He roused himself quite as suddenly. In the slight pause which had broken her speech, he had been making a swift, but futile effort to chart the future. He knew that Lorimer was drifting carelessly, thoughtlessly; he also knew that Beatrix was allowing herself to drift idly in his wake. And how about himself? And would they all make the same port in the end? If not, where would the diverging currents be waiting for them?
His brain was working intently; but his voice was quite conventional, as he rose.
”I hoped you would ask me. After a month or two of singing to strangers, I begin to feel the need of something a little more personal. Will you have the new songs, or the old?”
”The old, of course,” she answered unhesitatingly.
He improvised for a moment; then he began to sing,--
”_The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me.
I count them over one by_--”
Abruptly he stopped singing and struck a dozen resonant major chords.
”What a disgustingly sentimental thing that is!” he said sharply. ”After our summer at Monomoy in the sea air, we need an atmosphere of ozone, not of laughing gas.”
And he played the prelude of _Die Beiden Grenadieren_.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Arlt dropped in at Thayer's rooms, the next afternoon, and sat looking on while his friend put himself into his evening clothes, preparatory to dining with Miss Gannion.
”I walked up here with Mr. Dane,” he observed, after a thoughtful interval. ”What an American he is!”
”American?”
”Yes. No other country but yours can produce such people. France tries it, and fails. A Frenchman takes his frivolity in earnest. Mr. Dane is like that little _Scherzo_ by Faulkes, the one that frisks on and on, and all of a sudden comes to an end with a loud _Ha ha_ over its own absurdity. Mr. Dane delights in his own talk, just as you delight in your singing.”
”He is not self-conscious,” Thayer objected quickly.
”Neither are you. Each of you has a gift, and you each delight in using it. That is not saying that you either of you regard it as the only gift in the world. Instead, having it, you make the most of it, to let it grow and to put it in the way of giving pleasure to other people.”
Thayer smiled, in spite of himself.
”To paraphrase you, Arlt, what a German you are! n.o.body else would attempt to philosophize concerning Bobby Dane.”
”Why not? He is worth it, for he has other gifts than his wit.”
”Did he say anything about Lorimer?” Thayer asked abruptly.