“Sing,” said Hester, just above a whisper, as though she were murmuring in her sleep.
But still no single note came from his lips, and still his eyes rested on her face.
“I can’t!” he exclaimed, suddenly, as though his own breath oppressed him.
Slowly she raised her lids, and her eyes met his, wild, dark, almost speaking with a voice of their own.
“Why did you sing for her?” she asked, whispering, as he gradually bent down towards her. “Do you love me?”
“Like death,” he answered, bending still.
“Do you hate Katharine Lauderdale?” she asked, very near his face.
“I hate everything but you, sweet—”
The two transparent hands were suddenly raised and framed his eyes, and held him a moment.
“Say you hate her!” The whisper was short, fierce, and hot.