“But I can’t resist waiting to hear Monsieur Rusoff,” she said. “I thought he never played at private houses. How clever of you, dear Violet. I wonder if you could get him to play for me. Stella will sit down and wait for me, no doubt.”
But before Karl struck the first chord, Martin had won (not to say pushed) his way through the hushed crowd, and found Stella sitting outside in the other drawing-room. Every one had flocked in to hear the music, and they were alone.
His foot was noiseless on the thick carpet, and he was but a yard or two from her when she raised her eyes and saw him. Then with a little choking cry, only half articulate, he came close to her. All the excitement and fire in which his life was passed was cold ashes compared to this moment, and his heart thumped riotously against his chest. Twice he tried to speak, but his trembling lips would not form the words, and she waited, her eyes still fixed on his. Then suddenly he threw his arms out.
“It is no good trying,” he said. “But I love you! I—I love you!”
Oh, the clumsy, bald statement! But Life and Death meant less than that word.
“Oh, Martin,” she said, “I have waited—I—I don’t know what I am saying.”
“Waited?” he asked, and his eyes glowed like hot coals.
Then he laughed.
“And you never told me,” he said. “If it was not you, I should never forgive you. And if it was not you, I should not care.”
“Isn’t that nonsense?” she asked.