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Updated: May 11, 2025
Finally Stacia Conry wrote, a little note: she was to be in St. Louis on the fourteenth for a short time and hoped that he would call on her at the hotel. A perfectly proper, colorless little note, written in an unformed hand, with a word or two misspelled, the kind of note that gave no indication of the writer, but seemed like the voice of a stranger.
She is for bel canto and moonlight and the voice of Rome. But there is a world outside this all, my friend, to which you and I belong, and you rather more than I.... Stacia Conry doesn't belong at all." "Which means?" demanded Vickers steadily of the burly Fosdick. "Take care that you don't get stuck in the sea of Sargasso. I think something bitter might rise out of all that loveliness."
Except for the one glance from the gray eyes which she gave him as they shook hands, Stacia Conry did not stir the past. But she was voluble of the present. "You did not expect this! You see my husband had some work to attend to near here, and I thought I would come with him.... No, we left Delia in Pittsburg with his mother, she wanted to see you, but she would be in the way."
The next morning when Vickers entered his sister's library, Stacia Conry rose from the lounge where she had been lying reading a newspaper, and waited hesitantly while he came forward. She was very pretty this morning, with a faint touch of rose beneath her pale skin, her long lashes falling over fresh, shy eyes.
"The car at two," ordered Jacqueline, and with a "well butlered bow" Gerald took himself off. "You are not to wear your black dress no uniform to-day, Stacia," Jacqueline told Tessie. "Put on the nicest summer dress you own, that one with the pink flowers. You are to be my companion to-day and I hope you have a lovely time."
It would not have been thus if he had lost his fortune, the work of all his years. Such a fate he would have looked in the eye, with raised head.... That night Vickers and Stacia Conry left for New York, and a few days later Mrs. Price read their names in a list of outgoing passengers for Genoa. She did not show the list to the Colonel, and their son's name was never mentioned in the house.
I got some in there you don't see every day in the week, young man. A racing friend of mine from Kentuck sends it to me. What's yours, Stacy?" ... When the young man departed, Stacia Conry stared at the door through which he had disappeared, with a dead expression that had something disagreeable in it. Conry, who had had his drink, came back to the parlor and began to talk.
He had the fragments of a score for an opera that he had scarce looked at since he had begun "to sell nails"; but to-night he took it from the drawer and ran it over, "Love Among the Ruins," and as he went to sleep he saw Stacia Conry singing as she had sung that last night in Rome, singing the music of his opera, success and fame at her feet.... The something that Mrs.
One June day that promised to be fresh and cool they walked through the woods above the lake of Albano. Stacia Conry hummed the words of a song that Vickers had written and set to music, one of a cycle they had planned for her to sing the Songs of the Cities. This was the song of Rome, and in it Vickers had embedded the sad strain that the girl sang coming up the street, the cry of the past.
After a time he chose a seat with great deliberation and continued to stare at the young man. "Have a cigar?" He took one from his waistcoat pocket and held it towards the young man. "It's a good one, none of your barroom smokes, oh, I see you are one of those cigarette fiends, same as Stacia!" There was a conversational hiatus, and Vickers was thinking of going. "Well, how was the show?"
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