"
She disengaged herself from his arms and sat down. Some late roisterers
passing by in the street were heard singing to the twang of a mandolin. It
was a full, deep song, and the casual voices blended in perfect accord. As
the harmony floated out of hearing, she looked up at him with a haunting
smile.
"People are always singing to us; I wish they wouldn't. Music is so sad;
it is like a heart-break."
He knelt beside her; he was a tall man, and the action seemed natural.
"You are pale and tired," he said; "and I am going to take a doctor's
privilege and send you to bed. To-morrow you can answer better what I so
long to hear. You heard what your father said; your answer rests entirely
with you. Will you write, or shall I come?"
"Do you know," she answered, her eyes burning in her pale face, "you have
very pretty, soft dark hair? Does it feel as soft as it looks?" She
raised her hand, and ran her fingers lingeringly through his short, thick
hair.
"Why," she said brightly, "here are some silvery threads on your temples.
Troubles, darling?"
"You shall pull them out," he answered, drawing her little hand to his
lips.
"There, go away," she said quickly, snatching it from him and moving from
her chair as he rose.
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