“He wasn’t forty when you taught his sister’s children.”
“No; but he looked older than he does now, being so ill. I used to think he would be very handsome with good health; and now I see I was right,” said Christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new thing to tease David, and she liked it.
But she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer began to sing to the select few who remained, and every one was silent. Leaning on the high back of Christie’s chair, David watched the reflection of her face in the long mirror; for she listened to the music with downcast eyes, unconscious what eloquent expressions were passing over her countenance. She seemed a new Christie to David, in that excited mood; and, as he watched her, he thought:
“She loved this man once, or he loved her; and tonight it all comes back to her. How will it end?”
So earnestly did he try to read that altered face that Christie felt the intentness of his gaze, looked up suddenly, and met his eyes in the glass. Something in the expression of those usually serene eyes, now darkened and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny, surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what she said, she asked quickly:
“Who are you admiring?”
“Not myself.”
“I wonder if you’d think me vain if I asked you something that I want to know?” she said, obeying a sudden impulse.
“Ask it, and I’ll tell you.”
“Am I much changed since you first knew me?”