'You speak as if you had felt it all yourself,' said Clare, a little surprised at the earnestness of his tone.
'I did not mean to speak otherwise than generally. I believe in England it is considered "bad form" to show feeling of any sort—and you English hate sentiment, don't you?'
'I don't think we hate sincere feeling of any kind; but forgive me for asking—are you really an exile?'
Count Litvinoff bowed. 'I have that misfortune—or that honour, as, in spite of all, I suppose it is. But won't you sing something else?' he added, with a complete change of manner, which made any return on her part to the subject of his exile impossible.
'I really think I've done my duty to-night,' she answered, rising. 'Don't you sing?'
'Yes, sometimes. Music is a consolation. And one is driven to make music for oneself when one lives a very lonely life.'
'Won't you make music for us?' she asked, ignoring the fact that her father was still snoring with vigour.
'Yes, if you wish it.'
He took her place at the piano, and, in a low voice, sang a Hungarian air, wild and melancholy, with a despairing minor refrain.