"Here she is, hiding from us," they cry. "Come, Lady Vera, it is your turn now to sing."
"I—cannot," she murmurs, faintly.
"No such obstinacy can be tolerated," they reply. "Lord Gordon and Captain Lockhart leave us to-morrow and everyone must contribute to their entertainment to-night. Only one song, Lady Vera, then we will excuse you."
She hesitates for a moment. Then a thought flashes over her mind.
"He sang to me," she thinks. "Why cannot I sing to him? Surely he must understand me then."
She suffers them to persuade her, and Lord Gordon comes forward to turn the leaves of the music. She shakes her head.
"I will sing some simple thing from memory," she says, and then he takes her fan and retains his place near her on that small pretext. His eyes linger on her beauty, the proud throat and fair face rising lily-like from the somber black dress.
She touches the white keys softly with her slim, white fingers. A plaintive melody rises, a mournful, minor chord; she sings with sudden, passionate fervor, some simple, pathetic words:
"I strove to tear thee from my heart,
The effort was in vain,
The spell was ever on my life,
And I am here again.
"Oh, I have ranged in countries strange,
And vowed no more to meet,
But power was in thy parting glance
To bring me to thy feet.