The phrase was an ugly one, and was spoken without thought. Van Duren started as if some one had smitten him suddenly from behind. He shot a look full of suspicion and terror at Miriam; but her eyes were bent on the guitar, one or two strings of which seemed to want screwing up.
"What shall I sing for you?" she said, amending her phraseology this time.
Van Duren recovered himself with an effort.
"The guitar has always been associated in my mind," he said, "with love-songs and serenades, with moonlight and romance."
"Then here's a little serenade for you. I, who sing, am supposed to be a cavalier. If your imagination will carry you so far, you can fancy yourself to be the lady thus lovingly addressed."
She struck a chord or two on the guitar, and began as follows:--
"What throbs through the song of the nightingale?
What makes the red heart of the rose turn pale?
Love, burning love.
What makes me grow drowsy 'neath midsummer skies?
What makes me a slave to my lady's dark eyes?
Love, burning love."