There was a swish of petticoats, and she was standing at the side of her chair. The beginning of the night was cool, but the fire of the world's desire burned in her cheeks, and she was afraid. She stepped to the railing, faced the purpling mountains, lifted her chin, and sang Die Zauberflöte. And Hillard dared not touch her till the last note was gone. She felt his nearness, however, as surely as if he had in fact touched her. She tried to sing again, but this time no sound issued from her throat. There was something intangibly hypnotic in his gaze, for presently, without will, she turned and tried to look coldly into his eyes.
"I did not come here because of friendship," he said. "Only one thing brought me—love and the hope of love."
She stared at him, her hand at her throat.
"Love and the hope of love," he repeated. Then he took her in his arms suddenly, hungrily, even roughly. "You are mine, mine; and nothing in the world shall take you from my arms again. Sonia?"
"Don't!" she cried breathlessly. "He is looking."
"It is only a waiter; he doesn't count. Friendship?" He laughed.
"Please!" still struggling.
"Not till you tell me why you sent that telegram."
She pressed her palms against him and stood away. She looked bravely into his eyes now.