“Never!” she cried, starting up, and emphasizing her determination by a blow with her hand upon the music lying on the piano top.
“Ah! you feel like that now. Dora, show your sweet reasonableness by playing to me for a little while. I promise, I shall not annoy you further.”
“I don’t feel like playing. You have upset me.”
“Then, sit by the fire.”
He drew forward a chair of which he knew she was fond, and brought it close to the hearth.
“Come! You used to smoke in the old days. Have a cigarette. It will help you to forget unpleasant things. It will calm you—if you don’t feel inclined to play.”
“I would rather play,” she faltered.
“Whichever you please.”
She settled herself at the piano, and fingered the music, irresolutely. She had not touched the keys since Dick’s death, and, if she had been less perturbed to-night, she would not for a moment have contemplated breaking that silence for the sake of Vivian Ormsby, but an extraordinary helplessness had taken possession of her. There was something magnetic about this man whom she feared, and tried to hate, something that compelled her to act against her will and better judgment. 202