“Salome, why have you concealed your musical gift from me? Who taught you to sing?”
“I am teaching myself, with such poor aid as I can obtain from that miserable vagabond, Barilli, who is generally intoxicated three days out of every six. Did you expect to find Heine’s yellow-haired Loreley, or a treacherous Ligeia, sitting on a rock, wooing passers-by to speedy destruction?”
“I certainly did not expect to meet my friend Salome alone at this hour and place. Child, do not trifle with me,—be truthful. Did you come here to meet any one?”
“One never knows what may or may not happen. I came here to practise my music lesson, sans auditors, and I meet Dr. Grey,—the last person I expected or desired to see.”
He came a step nearer, and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Salome, you distress and perplex me. My child, are you better or worse than I think you?”
She lifted her slender hand and laid it lightly on his, which still rested upon her shoulder.
“I am both,—better and worse. Better in aim than you believe; worse in execution than you could realize, even if I confessed all, which I have not the slightest intention of doing. Ah, Dr. Grey, if you read me thoroughly, you would not be surprised, or consider it presumptuous that I sometimes think I am that anomalous creature, whom Balzac defined as ‘Angel through love, demon through fantasy, child through faith, sage through experience, man through the brain, woman through the heart, giant through hope, and poet through dreams.’”
As Dr. Grey looked down into the splendid eyes, softened and magnified by a crystal veil of unshed tears, he sighed, and answered,—