All the reckless impulse of his boyhood, the long years of unrestraint, surged over him, urging him on to wake in her some answer to his fierce, insistent demand. She should remember the way he had loved her, she should know the way he loved her now. If there was any heart left in her she must respond in some way to his imperative need.
But her eyes kept steadily on the key-board, and her fingers unfalteringly followed the notes. Could he have known how the tears burned under her lashes, and how cold her fingers were on the keys; could he have guessed how she sat there under his steady gaze, with tense muscles and quivering nerves, calculating the minutes that must elapse before Noah's interminable verses would end, and she could escape, he might have had compassion on her.
“Sing, Cousin Don!” demanded Connie; “you are leaving it all to Mr. Wicker and me, while you sit there looking exactly as if you had lost your last friend.”
“No, only my illusions, Connie.”
“Where did you lose them?”
“In Singapore. All but one. I hung on to it clear around the world, only to lose it on Christmas night when I got home. Don't you feel sorry for me?”
“Not a bit,” said Connie saucily. “I couldn't feel sorry for anybody as good looking as you are,—could you, Mr. Wicker? Where did Miss Lady go?”
“She said she was going to lie down, that her head ached,” said Noah.
“I know what's the matter,” said Connie; “she tries to keep us from seeing it, but she's all broken up over selling Thornwood.”
“Thornwood!” cried Donald; “she hasn't sold it?”