"Go ahead, Wick, and sing something; we'll join in the
chorus."
But when the time for the chorus came Donald had forgotten his
promise. He was leaning back in a corner of the sofa, his hand shading
his eyes, watching Miss Lady, and wondering what trick of fate had
driven her to marry John Jay Queerington. There was no man in the
world whose moral worth he admired more, but Miss Lady seemed as out
of place in his life as a darting, quivering humming-bird in a museum
of natural history. He noticed the faint shadows about her eyes, and
the wistful droop of her lips. If he could only set her free! A mad
desire seized him to see her once more joyously on the wing with all
her old buoyancy and daring. And yet she had walked open eyed into her
cage, and he had yet to see the tiniest flutter of her wings against
the bars.
On that first night of his home-coming surely he had read a welcome in
her eyes! But never since by word or gesture had he reason to think
that she remembered. She was gracious and elusive, and she talked to
him as she talked to Decker and Gerald Ivy, only she looked at them
when she talked, and she never even looked at him.
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