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Dyed gloves and all other sublunary trials were forgotten: Marjory did not touch her face once; and when the happy evening was over, the gloves were put away with a loving pat on their backs, and John had risen ten degrees in Marjory's respect. If those gloves had but rested on their laurels! But if people of genius will not do that, can you expect it of dyed gloves?
"Oh, how sweet!" cried Maud as she opened the locket and saw the face of Marjory's mother. "How I wish you'd got her now!" impulsively squeezing Marjory's arm. "And what's this?" looking at the other trinket which hung on the chain. "It's the half of a coin with a hole bored through it." "So it is. And look, there's one-half of the date on it 87. Let's see. This is 1902.
Marjory laughed. "You shall make a story of it and tell it to me some day; but come now and see my bedroom." On the way to Marjory's bedroom they had to pass the locked chamber, and of course Blanche had to inquire what it was, and Marjory had to explain, which she did in an apologetic, shamefaced way. "But how romantic much better than a fairy tale!
He would have liked to have been able to order them out of the room. Marjory's cool fingers on his face and neck had conjured within him a vision at an intimacy tnat was even sweeter than anything which he had imagined, and he longed to pour out to her the bubbling, impassioned speech which came to his lips. But, always doddering behind him, were the two old people, strenuous to be of help to him.
So it was arranged. Marjory's lofty mind did wince a little at the idea of dyed gloves, but she tried not to think of it.
Can you forgive me for stealing your gloves? The motive at least was good." Marjory's face had cleared as this highly circumstantial narrative progressed, and when it was finished she looked up smiling. "Yes," she said, "I quite forgive you: the motive is everything. But do please tell me, were you really so interested in what that little gorilla said as you seemed to be?
"It will not conceal, Parys," said she, "that there are yet in this bosom, where your Marjory's head has sought the refuge of love, frightened by war, some embers of your old spirit ready to flame again. Is it not so? Love hath sharp eyes. It is not for stag hunting that your followers are stringing their bows.
She would weave romances, with him as hero and herself as heroine romances which always had the same happy ending; and then she would finish up by wondering if she would ever see him, and whether he would be the least bit like her pictures of him. Marjory's thoughts wandered back to the man, and the mystery surrounding his appearance and disappearance.
Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell from his lips, until finally the orchestra itself joined. Women strained forward, and half-dazed men sat back and listened with bated breath. Even Monte forgot for a moment the boldness that inspired Hamilton, and became conscious only of Marjory's warm fingers within his.
Miss Waspe liked to watch the light of understanding flash into Marjory's eyes as she explained some intricate question, and the instinctive comprehension of something said or read which might have meant difficulty to a slower mind. At last, after much wheedling and coaxing, the doctor gave permission for the lessons to be given at Hunters' Brae, Blanche and Miss Waspe going up every morning.
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