“Oh, yes,” he muttered confusedly. “I did promise.”
The instant she felt his grip relax, Magda sprang forward and switched on the centre burners, flooding the room with a blaze of light, and in the sudden glare she and Davilof stood staring silently at each other.
With the springing up of the lights it was as though a spell had broken. The strained, hunted expression left Magda’s face. She wasn’t frightened any longer. Davilof was no more the man whose sudden passion had surged about her, threatening to break down all defences and overwhelm her. He was just Davilof, her accompanist, who, like half the men of her acquaintance, was more or less in love with her and who had overstepped the boundary which she had very definitely marked out between herself and him.
She regarded him stormily.
“Have you gone mad?” she asked contemptuously.
He returned her look, his eyes curiously brilliant. Then he laughed suddenly.
“Mad?” he said. “Yes, I think I am mad. Mad with love for you! Magda”—he came and stood close beside her—“don’t send me away! Don’t say you can’t care for me! You don’t love me now—but I could teach you.” His voice deepened. “I love you so much. Oh, sweetest!—Soul of me! Love is so beautiful. Let me teach you how beautiful it is!”
Magda drew back.
“No,” she said. The brief negative fell clear and distinct as a bell.
“I won’t take no,” he returned hotly. “I won’t take no. I want you. Good God! Don’t you understand? My love for you isn’t just a boy’s infatuation that you can dismiss with a word. It’s all of me. I worship you! Haven’t I been with you day after day, worked with you, followed your every mood—shared your very soul with you? You’re mine! Mine, because I understand you. You’ve shown me all you thought, all you felt. You couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t meant something to you.”