She lifted her eyes to his:
“You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your ‘very well’ means much. If you say so, I will do my best.”
“I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?” He smiled brightly.
Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice.
“I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is justified.”
“You cannot help but sing well.”
“Why?”
“Because I will help you—make you.”
This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in him, some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet again she said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man’s tenderness, so long as she knew that she had his—She paused, and did not say the word. She met his eyes steadily—their concentration dazed her—then she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away:
“How, make me?”