Glides into the harbour, thunders forth her cannon.
See you? He is coming!--
I do not go to meet him. Not I. I stay
Upon the brow of the hillock and wait, and wait
For a long time, but never weary
Of the long waiting.
From out the crowded city,
There is coming a man--
A little speck in the distance, climbing the hillock.
Can you guess who it is?
And when he's reached the summit
Can you guess what he'll say?
He will call 'Butterfly' from the distance.
I, without answering,
Hold myself quietly concealed,
A bit to tease him, and a bit so as not to die
At our first meeting: and then, a little troubled,
He will call, he will call:
'Dear baby-wife of mine, dear little orange-blossom!'
The names he used to call me when he came here_. . . ."

Eric had allowed his cigar to go out. He lighted it again and turned to
his neighbour with an apology, as the voice ceased and then seemed to
revive with a last sob of ecstasy.

"She did that very well. Shall we go upstairs? I should like some more.
We can take our cigars with us."

Without waiting for an answer, he made for the door and hurried ahead of
the others. The drawing-room was sombrely lighted by three low standard
lamps which threw the upper half of the room into shadow. He stood for
several moments with lips parted and shining eyes, trying to identify
three scattered couples of women before reducing the figure at the
piano, by elimination, to Barbara.

"I say, was that you?" he demanded.

She made way for him at her side, welcoming him with a chastened smile
and wondering at his sudden enthusiasm.

"Did you like it? I'm so glad. I was beginning to think you were a
craftsman, but I believe you're an artist. . . . I'm full of
accomplishments, Eric. Pity, isn't it, that in _spite_ of it all----?"

She hesitated, wistfully provocative.

"What's a pity?" he asked.

"What you were thinking; that I am _what_ I am."

"I wasn't thinking that," he answered dreamily. "I was wondering if
you'd sing again. We couldn't hear you at all downstairs----"

"Enough to bring you up very quickly?"

He sighed with exasperation.

"Yes, if your vanity needs a sop. Was that why you sang?"

She shook her head at him wearily, and he saw undried tears on her
cheeks.

"Marion just asked me to sing. It was either that or talking to Yolande
Manisty, and I hate her. What would you like me to sing?"

Eric