And these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength, and overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her so wildly.
"I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you smiled and blushed!" he protested, roughly. "Why did you do it? Kathleen, you do love me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I tell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?"
She shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, "How long? How long?"
"Won't you try, then?" with a humbleness that was not natural to him. "Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!"
He held out his arms to her despairingly.
"I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock," she said.
His arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty, pale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face of the man who stood opposite.
There were no shadows in the little room—it was all glare and shabbiness.
"I will go," he said, and then his eyes caught fire; "but you are a flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me on—played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet, to amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?" with a little cynical laugh. "It's really clever—of its kind—you know——"
He moved towards the door.