Sybil smiled, not bitterly even, with a sort of careless scorn, which would have irritated the man had he seen it—but her face was partially turned away; he saw only the outlines of her colorless cheek, which took a singular grace and softness in the moonlight.
"Are you going to sing?" he asked, after a moment's silence, broken only by a malediction upon his cigar. "How many times must one ask you to do a thing before you condescend to pay attention?"
She made no answer, but began at once a Spanish song, in a powerful contralto voice, which rung pleasantly through the stillness, as if a score of birds in the neighboring almond thicket had been awakened by the beauty of the night, and were joining their notes in a delicious harmony.
When the song was finished she began another without waiting for him to speak, and for a full half hour she continued her efforts to amuse him, without the slightest appearance of distaste or weariness.
Suddenly, another sound came up through the night—the tread of heavy feet and voices, evidently approaching the house.
"Hush!" said Yates, quickly. "Somebody is coming."
Sybil paused, with the words unfinished upon her lips, and both listened intently.
"It must be Tom," exclaimed Philip; "nobody but he ever whistles like that."
He listened for an instant longer, then called out: