"Lord of my life, than whom none other shareth
The deep, red, silent wine that fills my soul—
Take thou and drain, till not one drop remaineth
To wet thy lips—then turn thou down the bowl.
"Lord of my heart—this boon I crave—this only,
That all my worth may be possessed by thee;
Make thou my life a chalice, drained, that lonely
Stands on the altar of Eternity."
She looked up at him as her fingers wandered to the final chord. His lips were set in a thin line, and he was breathing quickly.
"Why did you sing that?" he asked.
She blindly shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know—why shouldn't I? The music's a good deal nicer than the words, I think. Don't you find the words are rather silly? They are of most songs, I think."
"And you call that silly," he said. "I suppose it's a woman's song—but, my God! do you know I could sing that to you?"
His arm was round her then, dragging her towards him in a lithe grip, the fierce strength of which she too well understood. She struggled, breathing heavily, for her freedom; but he caught her face in his hand, dragged it to his lips and covered her with kisses.
Then she broke free, rising to her feet, overturning the chair behind her, pushing back the disordered hair from her forehead.
"How dare you!" she breathed.
Countless women have said it, in countless moments similar to this. And with it, often, seeing all the circumstances that have led up to it in their different light, comes the knowledge—as it came also to Sally—the understanding of how the man has dared. Recklessness had led her. In her heart, she blamed herself. She might have known men now; known them from her knowledge at least of one man. Undoubtedly she was to blame, taking everything into account—the defencelessness of her position, the fact that he had known of her relationship with Traill and its termination; yet her eyes flamed with contempt as they met his.