"
The words seemed to have a meaning which eluded them, and they
pondered while they descended the hillside until the piece of
low-lying land came into view and the bridge crossing the sluggish
stream, amid whose rushes he had gathered the wild forget-me-not. As
he was about to speak of them he remembered her singing classes, and
that yester evening had worn away without hearing her sing. "You have
lost all interest in music, I fear. You think of it now as a means of
making money... for your children," he added, so that his words might
not wound her.
"And you, Owen, does music still interest you,"--she nearly said,
"now that I am out of it?" but stopped, the words on her lips.
"Yes," he said, "I think it does," and there was an eagerness in his
voice when he said, "I have been trying my hand at composition again,
and I have written a good many songs and some piano pieces, one for
piano and violin."
"A sonata?"
"Well, something in that way... not very strict in form perhaps."
"That doesn't matter."
"When you come to see me I should like to show you some of my things.
You will come to see me when you are in London... when you have a
moment?"
"Evelyn always keeps her promises," he said to himself, and he did
not give up hope that she would come to see him, although nearly two
weeks went by without his hearing from her.
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