"He has a fine voice," he said, when the song was finished. "Don't you think so?"
She started. "Yes, I—I think so," she said, mechanically.
"I was surprised a little at Eleanor's going in for music," Gerard went on. "It isn't her line, generally."
"No, it isn't her line," Elizabeth repeated, in the same mechanical tones. Suddenly she met his eyes defiantly. "I asked her to have him here," she said.
"Ah, you asked her?" Gerard drew his breath quickly. "I thought he was a—a friend of yours."
"You thought so?" she returned quickly, and then in a low voice, as if she dreaded the answer: "Why?"
"Why?" He repeated her question as if it surprised him. For a moment he seemed to hesitate; then, as if forming a sudden resolution: "I thought so," he said, steadily, and looking her straight in the face "for one thing, because I saw you walking in the Park with him one morning."
"Ah, you—you saw me?" She seemed to gasp for breath. Then, with a quick, impetuous movement, she pushed the tea-things away from her. "And so," she said, turning to him suddenly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling "you—you put the worst construction upon that, you think more ill of me than ever?"—
He had turned very pale, but still his voice was steady. "I don't know why I should think ill of you, for such a simple thing as that. But if there is any secret about it"—he fixed his eyes upon her coldly, haughtily—"if the meeting was not intended to be known, why I—I'm sorry I should have seen it. Of course I should not mention it—to any one else."
She flushed a little, then grew pale, before the scorn in his eyes. "There is—there is no secret," she said, in a low voice. "You can mention it—to whom you please."