She answered him this time with a flash of defiance. "I don't know," she said, "what right you have to demand it. But if you insist upon it, I'll tell you. You—you don't like my playing, and—it's very absurd, of course, but I never can play for people who don't."
"I—don't like your playing?" He shielded his eyes for a moment, as if from the glare of the fire. When he spoke again his tone was peremptory. "You foolish child," he said, "come and play for me, and I'll tell you, afterwards, what I think of it."
She looked up at him—startled, rebellious, met his eyes for a moment, then rose, pouting, like the child that he called her, constrained against her will, put down her book, and moved slowly toward the piano. "You are so terribly determined," she complained.
"And you are so terribly perverse! But when I want a thing very much, I can be determined, as you say. Play me the Fire-music," he went on, "and—and 'Tristan and Isolde,' as you did—do you remember?—the first night I met you."
She paused, with her hands on the keys. "I—I thought,"—she began, and then broke off suddenly, and began to play as he bade her—at first faltering, uncertainly, with a strange hesitation; then more firmly, as the keys responded with the old readiness to her touch, and she lost herself in the music. Outside the storm increased, the rain beat against the windows, the room grew dark, and once Elizabeth paused—she could hardly see the keys. But Gerard murmured, "Ah, the love-music!" and she played on. All the terrible distress, the maddening perplexity, of the last few months seemed to express themselves, in spite of herself, in those surging, strenuous chords; all the hope, too, and the wild unreasoning happiness. She was startled, almost as if she were telling the whole story in language so eloquent that he must surely understand it without further words. But Gerard, as was natural, read into it only his own feelings. He stood leaning on the piano, his hand shielding his eyes, which were fixed intently upon her.—It was so dark now that he could hardly see her face, only the shimmer of her hair standing out against the dusk, the movement of her white hands on the keys.
She faltered at last, struck a false chord, and broke off in the very midst of the love-music. "I—I can't see," she murmured, and let her hands fall in her lap.
"Do you remember," Gerard said, "that first night you played? I had talked to you at dinner, you know, you—you repelled me a little. I thought—I am telling you the bare truth, you see—you were a little cynical, a little hard—it seemed a pity when you were so"—he paused for a moment and his voice softened as he lingered over the word—"so beautiful. I couldn't understand you. I thought—I wouldn't try. It wasn't worth while—most things were not. And then—you played"—He paused again for a moment. "You know what most girls' playing is like. Yours has a soul, a fire—I don't know where you get it. It moved me, set me thinking, as no other woman's playing has done for years."
He paused again. Elizabeth looked up quickly. "I thought," she murmured, "that you didn't like my playing, that you were bored"—
"Ah, you thought," he said, "that when a man feels very much, he can make pretty speeches? I can't, at least. Oh, I've no doubt"—he made a resigned gesture—"I've no doubt that I behaved like a brute. Women have told me that I generally do. I said to myself—that girl is dangerous, she could make a man fall in love with her—even against his will. I was in love once—but that's another story. I never wanted to repeat the experiment. And so, as you know, I avoided you; like a fool, I used to go and look at your picture, and then—keep away from you, evening after evening. I struggled—with all the strength I have—I struggled not to love you. And then, as you know"—he looked her straight in the eyes—"as you have known well these last few weeks,—I failed."
There was silence for a moment. She was very white, her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. "I"—she gave a little shuddering sigh—"it would have been better if you hadn't."