‘I wish I could provoke even that much of jealousy from the other,’ muttered Gorman to himself, as he bit his lip in passion. And certainly, if a look and manner of calm unconcern meant anything, there was little that seemed less likely.
‘I am glad you are going to the piano, Nina,’ said Kate. ‘Mr. Walpole has been asking me by what artifice you could be induced to sing something of Mendelssohn.’
‘I am going to sing an Irish ballad for that Austrian patriot, who, like his national poet, thinks “Ireland a beautiful country to live out of.”’ Though a haughty toss of her head accompanied these words, there was a glance in her eye towards Gorman that plainly invited a renewal of their half-flirting hostilities.
‘When I left it, you had not been here,’ said he, with an obsequious tone, and an air of deference only too marked in its courtesy.
A slight, very faint blush on her cheek showed that she rather resented than accepted the flattery, but she appeared to be occupied in looking through the music-books, and made no rejoinder.
‘We want Mendelssohn, Nina,’ said Kate.
‘Or at least Spohr,’ added Walpole.
‘I never accept dictation about what I sing,’ muttered Nina, only loud enough to be overheard by Gorman. ‘People don’t tell you what theme you are to talk on; they don’t presume to say, “Be serious or be witty.” They don’t tell you to come to the aid of their sluggish natures by passion, or to dispel their dreariness by flights of fancy; and why are they to dare all this to us who speak through song?’
‘Just because you alone can do these things,’ said Gorman, in the same low voice as she had spoken in.
‘Can I help you in your search, dearest?’ said Kate, coming over to the piano.