"You have been missed, mademoiselle, by more than one," he said, slowly; "your name has been often mentioned, even by those unknown to you."
"Indeed," she replied, more quickly than usual; "who has done me that honour?"
"I shall answer your question by another," said Philip; "Mdlle. Lamien, where and when have you known Count Vladimir Mellikoff? Who and what is he, that he should express his surprise and displeasure at your movements?"
She drew a long sigh, and turned her head away from him, as she answered slowly and in a low voice:
"Where and when have I known Count Vladimir Mellikoff? Who and what is he? My reply can be brief enough, Mr. Tremain, to both questions: I have never known Count Vladimir at any time, I have no idea who or what he is."
Her words were concise and to the point, but they failed to convince Philip of their absolute sincerity. He said nothing for a few moments, but the silence that fell between them was alive with suggestion; and Philip, as he watched her, felt the old inconsequent irrational influence of her personality creep over him, wrapping him about in a half-magnetic, half-willing subjection; and which, while recognising its power, he was unable to throw off.
It was she who broke the silence with an upward gesture of disdain, as she said:
"Why should we speak upon so worn out a theme as my existence, Mr. Tremain? There are none concerned in my past who would care to recognise me now." Then suddenly, and with a quick movement towards the piano: "Shall I play for you, Mr. Tremain?"
She did not wait for his reply, but struck at once a few low notes, a minor chord or two that swept across the dim half-lights, and seemed but an outcome of the twilight, and of the last faint golden rays fading moment by moment in the far western sky. Then a headlong rush and tumult of melody caught up the passion, and despair, and longing of a soul in bondage struggling to be free, beating against the bars, crying out in anguish, then sinking back into despondency, and with a final moan striking downwards to despair.
Mr. Tremain, as he listened, felt himself caught up in the rush and movement, and borne along with it, following her will and pleasure even as her white fingers flew over the ivory keys, striking them now with fiery impetuosity, now with caressing softness, and again with lingering tenderness. Her slight figure in its black dress was alive and sinuous, responding to each emotion; her pale face grew illumined beneath its weight of white hair and drooping laces that fell about it. She was the living incarnation of the music; and Philip, half spell-bound, half realising the potency of the spell, found himself repeating mentally, "the charm of woven paces and of waving hands." Was she a Vivien as well?