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?"
"How fine, how proud!" he said to himself, then added:
"I meant 'make' in the helpful sense. I know the song: I've heard it sung, I've sung it; I've taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you will sing it well."
"Won't you sing it yourself? Do, please."