Carey was startled by their passionate, despairing ring.
“I know, I understand,” he began. “But see! I don’t think it will be like this with you for long. Will you believe me, seriously? I’m going to prophesy; but I will do it, presently, as we go home,” he added.
Bridget smiled. In some mysterious fashion, she felt that what he said was true. Her heart began to beat exultantly. It was absurd, she told herself, the way he had of inspiring confidence.
Was it merely his voice? she wondered. She glanced at him to see if the explanation was to be found in his appearance. She liked the look of strength about his square jaw, and the air of life, of strong vitality, which his bright, deep-set gray eyes gave to his face. A clever face, she thought gladly.
They talked on indifferent subjects for the ten minutes or so before the music began, and then not at all, till the last notes of the Liebestod, with which the concert ended, died away.
Bridget rose with a long sigh, her eyes still dreamy with the music.
It was raining fast, as they found when they reached the open air, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay, at the discovery. “I didn’t even bring an umbrella!” she exclaimed tragically.
“We’ll have a cab,” Carey said. “Wait in the doorway till I get one. I’ll come back for you.”
He was gone before she could protest.
“I was going towards Hackney,” he assured her, with an unveracious smile, holding his umbrella over her, as they went down the narrow alley towards the hansom. He helped her in, gave the address she resignedly told him to the cabman; and after the preliminary plunging and backing, they started.