He put the cigarette between his lips, drew a deep breath, then slowly sent the smoke down his nostrils.
“No,” he said.
“Look here!” she said. “Let me sing to you, shall I, and make you cheerful again?”
She sang from Wagner. It was the music of resignation and despair. She had not thought of it. All the time he listened he was thinking. The music stimulated his thoughts and illuminated the trend of his brooding. All the time he sat looking at her his eyes were dark with his thoughts. She finished the “Star of Eve” from Tannhäuser and came over to him.
“Why are you so sad to-night, when it is my birthday?” she asked plaintively.
“Am I slow?” he replied. “I am sorry.”
“What is the matter?” she said, sinking onto the small sofa near to him.
“Nothing!” he replied—“You are looking very beautiful.”
“There, I wanted you to say that! You ought to be quite gay, you know, when I am so smart to-night.”
“Nay,” he said, “I know I ought. But the to-morrow seems to have fallen in love with me. I can’t get out of its lean arms.”