"Do you remember," she asked, "that you used to praise my voice, and prophesy that I should sing well?"
"Yes, I remember," he replied.
"I have worked hard at my music," she continued, "in the hope of pleasing you."
"In the hope of pleasing me?" he interrogated. "It was kind to think so much of me."
"Of whom should I think, if not of you?" she inquired.
There were both love and reproach in her voice--he heard neither. Had he been as vain as he was proud, he would have been quicker to detect her love for himself.
The windows had been opened because the evening air was so clear and sweet; it came in now, and seemed to give the flowers a sweeter fragrance. Lord Arleigh drew his chair to the piano.
"I want you only to listen," she said. "You will have no turning over to do for me; the songs I love best I know by heart. Shut your eyes, Norman, and dream."
"I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at you," he returned.
Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream-land--the rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling the room with sweetest music. It was like no human voice that he remembered; seductive, full of passion and tenderness--a voice that told its own story, that told of its owner's power and charm--a voice that carried away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current carries the leaflet.