“And you call that holding the whip hand?”
“I mean the more a woman gives a man the less he gives her. There, sir, that is my experience, and I hope you will profit by it.”
“I will endeavor to do so.”
“Don’t sneer; that expression does not suit your face. You look best when you look earnest, and put on what I call your fighting look. But I am forgetting my song; stand here and turn over the leaves, and be sure you do not turn two together.”
Webster did as she bade him; he stood by her side and arranged her music, and the next minute or so a sweet flood of melody filled the room. Kathleen Weir had a ringing voice; a voice that somehow kept you spellbound until its last notes had died away. There was a thrill of passion in it too, as if the singer’s soul were echoing her words. Webster leaned on the piano, and drooped his eyelids listening, for these passion-swept strains stirred a strange emotion in his own breast. A flower-like face rose before his mental vision, and he sighed restlessly, and Kathleen Weir, glancing at him quickly, saw that she had touched some hidden chord in his heart.
“This man has loved someone once,” thought the keen-eyed woman, “or—does my voice charm him?”
The last thought pleased her best. Fuller and sweeter became her song; brighter and more radiant her eyes. But Webster was not looking at her. He gave a little jerk and pulled himself together when it was all over, and then for the first time since she had commenced singing he remembered he was standing by the side of Miss Kathleen Weir.
“Did you like that?” she asked, softly.
“I more than liked it,” he answered. “Miss Weir, you have the voice of a siren, and could charm any mariner down into the deep sea.”