Instantly Saltash sat up. "Bravo, ma belle reine! Your touch is like velvet to the senses. You have scarcely sung to me at all. But no matter! You have closed the gates now, and we can't go back. But wasn't it good? Come, be honest and say so."
She lifted her eyes to his with something of her dream still lingering there. "It was--very good," she said.
"And you'll come again?" he insinuated.
The dream began to fade. With her right hand she picked out a nervous little air on the piano, saying no word.
He leaned towards her. "Maud," he insisted, "surely you'll come again!"
"I don't know," she said slowly.
"Surely!" he said again.
Her eyes grew troubled. "Charlie," she said, her fingers still softly pressing the keys, "I can't come here when you are here. I like to come,--oh yes, I like to come. But I mustn't."
"Why not?" said Saltash. "Afraid of the cow-puncher?"
She shrank, and struck a sudden discordant chord. "I am not afraid of anyone, but I must think of appearances. I owe it to myself. I should like to come sometimes and play. But--with you here--I can't."