Her eyes were serious still, but round the corners of her mouth a little smile was playing in secret by itself. She didn't know it was there, or she never would have let it play.
"Don't you know that I want to say things to you?"
She looked at him and was frightened by the hunger in his eyes.
"Not now, Ranny," she said. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I want"—she was desperate—"I want to listen to the music."
At that moment the violins and the cello were struggling together in a cry of anguish and of passion.
"You don't," he said, savagely.
He was right. She didn't. The music, yearning and struggling, tore at her heart, set her nerves vibrating, her breast heaving. It was as if it drew her to Ranny, urgently, irresistibly, against her will.
"Not now, Ranny," she said, "not now." And it was as if she asked him to take pity on her.