"All right," he said good-humoredly, "I shan't ask any one else, but if
you happen to change your mind call me on the phone in the morning. Tell
me what train you're coming down on and I'll meet you."
She didn't expect to change her mind, but a phonograph did it for her.
This instrument was domesticated across the court somewhere--she had
never bothered to discover just which pair of windows the sound of it
issued from--and it was addicted to fox-trots, comic recitations in
negro dialect, and the melodies of Mr. Irving Berlin. It was jolly and
companionable and Rose regarded it as a friend. But on this Saturday
night, perversely enough, perhaps because its master was in Pittsburgh
on a business trip and hadn't come home as expected, the thing turned
sentimental. It sang _I'm on My Way to Mandalay_, under the impression
that Mandalay was an island somewhere. It played _The Rosary_, done as a
solo on the cornet; and over and over again it sang, with the thickest,
sirupiest sentiment that John McCormack at his best is capable of,
"Just a little love, a li--ttle kiss,
Just an hour that holds a world of bliss,
Eyes that tremble like the stars above me,
And the little word that says you love me.
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