Helen, you know you promised."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Helen, colouring at the title, "I can't sing before
Cadge; but if you like, I'll play for you. See if I'm not improving in my
tremolo."
Helen did not sing in the old days, so that I was not surprised at her
refusal. Taking her mandolin, she tinkled an air that I have often heard
her play, but neither I nor any one else had ears for it, so absorbed was
the sense of sight.
Her long lashes swept her cheeks as she bent forward in the firelight, her
vivid colouring subdued by the soft, playing glow to an elusive charm. At
one moment, as the flames flickered into stronger life, her beauty seemed
to grow fuller and to have an oriental softness and warmth; the next, the
light would die away, and in the cooler, grayer, fainter radiance, her
perfect grace of classic outline made her seem a statue--Galatea just
coming to life, more beautiful than the daughters of men, her great
loveliness delicately spiritualized.
If I were a beautiful woman, I'd learn to play a mandolin.
"Sing, Helen," begged Kitty in a whisper.
In a voice that began tremulously, low and faltering, and slowly gained
courage, she sang the ballad she had been playing.
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