She had counted so intensely on winning Roger's sympathy and understanding—on putting an end to that blundering, terrible jealousy of his by playing the game to the limit of her ability. It had been like making a burnt-offering for her to share the thing she loved best with Roger—to let him into some of the secret places where dwelt her inmost dreams and emotions. And she had nerved herself to do it, made her sacrifice—in vain! Roger was even unconscious that it was a sacrifice!
She looked down at him as he lay with the firelight flickering across his strong-featured face, and a storm of fury and indignation swept over her. She could have struck him!
Presently he stirred uneasily. Perhaps he felt the cessation of the music, the sense of someone moving in the room. A moment later he opened his eyes and saw her standing beside him.
"You, darling?" he murmured drowsily. He stretched his arms. "I think . . . I've been to sleep." Then, recollection returning to him: "By Jove! And you were playing to me—"
"Yes," she answered slowly. Her lips felt dry. "And I'll never play to you again as long as I live!"
He smiled indulgently.
"That's putting it rather strong, isn't it?" he said, making a long arm and pulling her down on to his knee.
She sprang up again instantly and stood a little away from him, her hands clenched, her breast heaving tumultuously.
"Come back, small firebrand!" he commanded laughingly.
A fresh gust of indignation, swept over her. Even now he didn't comprehend, didn't realise in the very least how he had wounded her. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she took a fresh grip of herself and answered him—very slowly and distinctly so that he might not miss her meaning.