"I want you to feel that I would do anything for them. Are you sure they have all they want?"
"Indeed—yes, far more. You have given too much already."
She raised her head with that indescribable little gesture of hauteur, which becomes her so beautifully. I could read her mind. It said, "I loathe receiving anything from him, with that woman in the background!"
When we went into the salon I wondered what she would do. I did not speak. She took my crutch and shook up my cushion, taking great care not to touch me. I could not look up. I knew that a powerful electric current would pass from my eye to hers, if I did, and that she would see that I was only longing to take her to my heart.
I remained silent and gazed into the fire. She sat down quietly on the sofa at the side, so that I would have to turn my head to look at her. Thus we remained for quite five minutes, speechless. The air throbbed with emotion. I dared not move.
At last she said, "Would you care that I should read to you again, or play?"
"Play for a little." My voice was chilly. I was quite determined the iciness should come from me first, not her, for a few days.
She went to the piano, and she began the Debussy she had played that afternoon when I had first asked her to play—I never can remember its name—and when she had finished she stopped.
"What made you play that now?" I asked.