There was magic in the woman, sewing in the lamplight. Even the few gray hairs in the shining flood of brown were dear to him, and so was the uncertain quality of her voice.[Pg 73]
“Never mind it,” he said.
“But I do mind it, Robert,” she protested. “I’m sure you don’t understand.”
He looked nothing less than mulish, and she saw with despair that he intended not to understand. This must not be. The unclouded admiration of her faithful Robert was the breath of life to her. She looked long at him, but he smoked his pipe, refusing to raise his eyes, and at last she rose.
He glanced up quickly enough when he heard the piano. He liked nothing better than a song. Never did Gina touch his heart more surely than by her music. She was a slender, gracious little woman, still pretty. She often fancied that it was Robert who kept her young, that his sturdy refusal to admit any change in her arrested the course of time. She smiled over her shoulder at him, and began:
“Old Dog Tray, he is faithful;
Grief cannot drive him away.
He is gentle, he is kind,
And you’ll never, never find
A better friend than Old Dog Tray.”
She sang it touchingly.
“Don’t you see, Robert,” she said, “that it’s really a beautiful thing to think of you?”
“Yes, Gina, I’ve no doubt it’s as you say,” he answered, and she was satisfied.
She didn’t know that she had made a terrible mistake, that she had done irrevocable harm. All the time she sang, he had endured torments. Suppose the children heard, or the servants? He was not Old Dog Tray! He would not be!