"As well as any. I remember this song. I heard you sing it with Xenie that summer."
"Yes, our voices went well together," he answered, as carelessly. "I wish you would sing it with me now?"
"I cannot, but I will play it for you. Shall we begin now?"
He was silent a moment, looking down at her as she sat there with down-drooped eyes, the gleam of the firelight and gaslight shining on the black braids of her hair and the rich, warm-hued dress that was so very becoming to her dark, bright beauty.
Suddenly he saw something on the white hand that was softly touching the piano keys. He took the slim fingers in his before she was aware.
"Let me see your ring," he said. "It looks familiar. Ah, it is the one I gave you that winter when we——"
She threw back her head and looked at him with wide, angry, black eyes.
"What do you mean?" she said imperiously. "Are you crazy, Mr. Templeton? It is the ring you gave Xenie, certainly, but not me!"
"Lora, love," said her mother's voice from the sofa, in mild reproval. "Do not be rude to Mr. Templeton."
"Mamma, I don't mean to," said Lora, without turning her head; "but he—he spoke as if I were Xenie."