From
over the edge of "Vanity Fair" Robin watched anxiously the preoccupation
and shadow on Beryl's face.
(Oh, why _had_ she changed that inside-out stocking!)
"Beryl, what is the matter?"
"Nothing."
"There _is_. You won't read or talk or--anything."
"Well, I don't feel like it."
"What _do_ you feel like--inside?" persisted Robin.
"Like--nothing. _Just_ like it."
"Beryl, are you discouraged about--your music?"
Robin put her finger so accurately upon the sore spot that Beryl winced.
Robin added: "You ought not to be--you're wonderful!"
"I'm _not_. You think so 'cause you don't know! I can't get something I
used to have. I had it when I played on Christmas night and oh, I felt
as though I'd always have it--it just tingled in my fingers and made my
heart almost burst and then--it went away. I can't rouse it now. I don't
even know--what made it come--inside me. But I do know that I'm as far
away from--what I want, really working and getting ahead--as I ever was.
_Further_, way off here. At least when I was in New York I had dear old
Jacques Henri to help me!"
Robin's book tumbled to the floor.
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