“The words of my mother’s song would mean nothing to you, Garry,” she faltered. “You could not understand them——”

“Why not?”

“B-because you could not be in sympathy with them.”

“How do you know? Try!”

“I can’t——”

“Please, dear!”

The smile edging her lips glimmered in her eyes now—a reckless little glint of humour, almost defiant.

“Do you insist that I sing ‘Asthore’?”

“Yes.”

He seemed conscious of a latent excitement in her to which something within himself was already responsive.