“‘_Sehnsucht._’ That means in German ‘longing.’ I found it last winter in a collection of old German love songs. I liked it so much that I tried to put the words into English. It’s the only time I ever attempted to write verse. It turned out better than I had expected.” There was a tiny touch of pride in the answer.
“Connie used to sing it often for an encore last winter. Then she always had to sing it again. People never seemed to get enough of that particular song.” Laurie’s voice expressed his own adoring pride in Constance.
“I don’t wonder. The music is the throbbing, I-can’t-live-without-you kind, same as the words. It gets even me. You all know how sentimental I am—not,” Jerry declared.
“Why, may I ask, does it get you?” briskly began Danny. “Why——”
“You may ask, but that’s all the good it will do you,” Jerry retorted with finality. “Let me take the wheel awhile, Hal. You may sing a little for the gang. I may not admire some points about you, but I’ll say you can sing, even if you are my brother.”
“Oh, let me sing,” begged Danny. “You never heard me at my best.”
“I hope I never shall.” Jerry did not even trouble to glance at the modest aspirant for vocal glory. “Don’t speak to me, if you can help it. Just hearing you speak might get on my nerves and make me fall overboard.” She rose carefully in her seat in order to change places with Hal.
Hal had taken no part in the discussion which had followed Constance’s song. He was leaning over the wheel, his clean-cut features almost sternly set as he sent the Oriole speeding through a gently rippling sea. His thoughts were moodily centered on Marjorie. Danny’s and Jerry’s untimely interruption upon his impulsive declaration of love was in the nature of a misfortune to him. His first feeling of vexation in the matter had deepened into one of dejection as he listened to Connie’s song. He could not help wondering darkly if that was the way it would be with him. Would it become his lot to long some day for Marjorie, and vainly, across the years? He was sure of his love for her. He was sure it would never ebb nor abate. What about her love for him? Hal had nothing but doubts.
Last fall he had reluctantly come to the conclusion that Marjorie did not care in the least for him, other than in the way of friendship. It was only since she had come to Severn Beach that he had begun to take heart again. He had been her devoted companion, as of old, on all of the pleasure sails, drives and jaunts which the sextette of Sanford young folks had enjoyed. It had sometimes seemed to Hal that Marjorie was a trifle more gracious to him than of yore. He felt that she was fond of him in a comradely way. He could not recall an occasion since he had known Marjorie when she had accepted the attentions of another Sanford boy. That was one thing he might be glad of.