CHAPTER XXXIX
Hamoud, wearing the blue robe edged with gold embroidery, and carrying in his right hand the Venetian goblet, was half-way out of the living-room when David Verne resumed:
"No, you must really go about more, or you will begin to hate me."
The young Arab paused beyond the living-room door, his handsome head inclined to one side, waiting for the response—not for the words, but for the mere tone of her voice. He heard:
"While you are holding your own, and working so well, I am happy."
Hamoud closed his eyes, in order to let those silvery vibrations occupy his whole consciousness. Then, staring before him, he went swiftly across the wainscotted hall with his lithe, noiseless step, escaping before that other voice could break the spell.
David Verne, in his wheel chair that stood beside a tall lamp, gave her a furtive look, before continuing:
"Is it always happiness that I discover on your face? Is that what you show me when you raise your eyes blankly from some book, or return from the garden after those lonely walks of yours in the twilight? Or is it pity, not only for me, but also for yourself? Is it then that you see clearly what you've let yourself in for—what that divine impulse of yours has brought you to?"
"David!" she protested, her nerves contracting at this threat of a scene that must lacerate both their hearts.
But he persisted: