And yet all this had happened years before
Goneril had ever seen the light.
"Mees Goneril is feeling very young!" said the signorino, suddenly
turning his sharp kind eyes upon her.
"Yes," said Goneril, all confusion.
Madame Petrucci looked almost annoyed; the gay serene little lady that
nothing ever annoyed.
"It is she that is young!" she cried, in answer to an unspoken thought.
"She is a baby!"
"Oh, I am seventeen!" said Goneril.
They all laughed, and seemed at ease again.
"Yes, yes; she is very young," said the signorino.
But a little shadow had fallen across their placid entertainment. The
spirit had left their memories; they seemed to have grown shapeless,
dusty, as the fresh and comely faces of dead Etruscan kings crumble into
mould at the touch of the pitiless sunshine.
"Signorino," said Madame Petrucci, presently, "if you will accompany me,
we will perform one of your charming melodies."
Signor Graziano rose, a little stiffly, and led the pretty withered
little Diva to the piano.
Goneril looked on, wondering, admiring. The signorino's thin white hands
made a delicate fluent melody, reminding her of running water under the
rippled shade of trees, and, like a high, sweet bird, the thin,
penetrating notes of the singer rose, swelled, and died away, admirably
true and just, even in this latter weakness.
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