“Yes,” she said, with a sigh and a smile; it was, indeed, utterly useless to make any further attempt.
“Well, then, let us go over the balcony scene,” and he snatched up the book and turned to the page with nervous fingers.
Doris rose and opened her lips; then, with a sudden blush, that was as quickly followed by a strange pallor, she went to him and gently took the book from his hand.
“Not to-night, not again, Jeffrey,” she said, with a nervousness that was strange in her. “I—I could not! Don’t be angry, but”—she looked from side to side with a strangely troubled air—“I—I don’t think I could do it to-night! Don’t ask me!”
He nodded once or twice, looking at her meditatively.
“I think I understand,” he said, as if to himself. “You are afraid of getting hackneyed? Perhaps you are right. Yes, you are right,” he added, quietly; “there is such a thing as over-training. Yes, I know what you mean. Better let it rest for to-night, after the rehearsal this morning and the study this afternoon.”
Doris turned her head away with a guilty sense of having deceived him.
“It is not that,” she faltered, “but——” She stopped, and going to him suddenly, hid her face on his shoulder. “Oh, Jeffrey, if I should fail to-morrow!”
He patted her arm soothingly.
“There’s no such word for us, Doris,” he said, with grim confidence. “Don’t speak of failing. Fail! What, after all these years!”—his voice grew hoarse. “Why, child, what is the matter with you to-night?” he broke off in alarm, for he could feel that she was crying softly, and crying was by no means one of Doris’ customary habits.