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And so with her pulse racing madly, with her throat so dry it seemed as though she could not breathe, Felicia Day sat and listened, listened with her trembling hand over her mouth to keep her lips from crying out. Listened to the first firm chords as Dudley Hamilt's long fingers moved over the keys, listened as he began to sing.
He assumed with that rapidity with which an angry mind makes decisions, that Graemer was proceeding to Montrose Place for more of the damnably clever "local color" with which he was wont to dress his plays; that not content with having dramatized Hamilt's youthful woes to the orchestra circle he wanted to reproduce the whole thing photographically.
Except perhaps that she was hearing Dudley Hamilt's voice singing, very woodenly, "But my heart's grown numb and my soul is dumb " Like Dudley Hamilt, she couldn't bear to think of the rest of the song, there wasn't any hope of "After years"; the most precious thing in life, the soul of their youth, had been snatched away from them and there was nothing left that mattered.
First I'll go find the Portia Person and while he is attending to everything I will send a letter to Dudley Hamilt's house then I will go to Grandy's house and wait for Dudley Hamilt to come oh! oh! Babiche I can't arrange things clearly in mind, I can't no matter how I try! Only I must " So over and over to the roar of the train she tried to drill herself.
Hamilt's thoughts raced turbulently as his own taxi followed the route of Graemer's.
He obligingly found the telephone number, turned and asked her if she would like him to call Mr. Hamilt's office for her. The telephone was screwed to a small table near the door. Felicia waited, her heart throbbing. Beside her at the marble counter two giggling young things ordered soda water from a white-coated clerk.
She talked volubly in her rich broad Scotch. Agitated as she was, Felicia's own lips were mouthing these strange new sounds, she was sure she could get the gutteral A, she wasn't sure of the burry R. She couldn't heed at all what Janet was saying, indeed she couldn't listen intelligently, because her tired ears were still filled with the glorious harmonies of Dudley Hamilt's unfinished song.
At Louisa's ugly bonnet, at the damp and shapeless shoulders of the gray coat, at her own pallor, at the deep shadows under her tired eyes, into her own eyes, and saw the whole drab mirrored ghost of the woman who had been the young Felicia. And through the telephone rang Dudley Hamilt's eager voice, as eager as it had been that night when he clambered over the gate.
She had been loitering near the pantry door shamelessly eavesdropping during Dudley Hamilt's song because she hoped that meant the gentlemen would be going and that she could air her grievances while Mr. Freddie smoked and chuckled at her grumbling. So that when Mr. Freddie called for Miss Grant, Janet was on the stairs a good three seconds before that professionally calm person appeared.
Suddenly her rapturous ear caught Dudley Hamilt's resonant voice speaking, "Who is it?" he demanded impatiently. Her low sweet laughter purred over the wires to him. "Can't you remember?" she asked quietly. "I am Felice. Yes, I am Felice. I have been trying to find your house, Dudley Hamilt, but it's gone, they are building a vairee big house there.
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