Garstin had told him bluntly to go to the piano and show them what he could do. And Arabian had surprised Miss Van Tuyn by at once complying with this request, which had sounded like an order.
His performance had been the sort of thing she, having “advanced” views on musical matters, was generally inclined to sneer at or avoid. He had played two or three coon songs and a tango. But there had been in his playing a sheer “musicalness,” as she had called it afterwards, which had enticed her almost against her will. And when he had sung some little Spanish songs she had been conquered, though she had not said so.
His voice was a warm and soft tenor, and he had sung very naturally, carelessly almost. But everything had been just right. When he had stolen time, when he had given it back, the stealing and repayment had been right. His expression had been charming and not overdone. There had been at moments a delightful impudence in his singing. The touches of tenderness had been light as a feather, but they had had real meaning. Through his last song he had kept a cigarette alight in his mouth. He had merely hummed the melody, but it had been quite delicious. Even Garstin had approved, and had said: “The stuff was sheer rot, but it was like a palm tree singing.”
And then Arabian had given them a piece of information.
“I was brought up among palm trees.”
“Florida?” Garstin had said.
But somehow the question had not been answered. Perhaps she—Beryl—had spoken just then. She was not sure. But she had been “got at” by the music. And at that moment she had realized why Arabian was dangerous to her. Not only his looks appealed to her. He had other, more secret weapons. Charm, suppleness of temperament, heat and desire were his. Otherwise he could not have sung and played that rubbish as he had done.
That day, later on, he had not actually said, but had implied that some Spanish blood ran in his veins.
“But I belong to no country,” he had added quickly. “I am a gamin of the world.”
“Not a citizen?” she had said.