His life was narrowing down. He was all kindness, consideration and devotion; but the one supreme magnet of all––love––was wanting.
In vain Pluma exerted all her wondrous powers of fascination to win him more completely. How little he dreamed of the depths of love which controlled that passionate heart, every throb of which was for him––that to have won from him one token of warm affection she would have given all she held dear in this world.
“How does it happen, Rex,” she asked, one evening, “you have not asked me to sing to you since you have asked me to be your wife? Music used to be such a bond of sympathy between us.”
There was both love and reproach in her voice. He heard neither. He had simply forgotten it.
“I have been thinking of other things, I presume. Allow me to make up for it at once, however, by asking you if you will sing for me now.”
The tears came to her dark, flashing eyes, but she forced them bravely back. She had hoped he would clasp her in his arms, whispering some sweet compliment, then say to her “Darling, won’t you sing to me now?”
She swept toward the piano with the air of a queen.
“I want you to sit where I can see you, Rex,” she demanded, prettily; “I like to watch your face when I sing you my favorite songs.”
Rex drew his chair up close to the piano, laying his head back dreamily against the crimson cushions. He would not be obliged to talk; for once––just once––he would let his fancies roam where they would. He had often heard Pluma sing before, but never in the way she sung to-night. A low, thrilling, seductive voice full of pleading, passionate tenderness––a voice that whispered of the sweet irresistible power of love, that carried away the hearts of her listeners as a strong current carries a leaflet.