He stirred uneasily as she watched him; then slowly opened his eyes.
“What a dull dog I am!” he exclaimed, springing up. “Why don’t you tell me so?”
“Because I don’t think so. You’re tired, and you mustn’t think I only care for you when you are doing something to amuse me.”
She sat down on the sofa, motioning to him to sit beside her, and while he sipped the chocolate, she went on:
“You’re like all other men in one way. You fancy women are silly, restless things, who either aren’t worth amusing or must be amused always. If I’m only a child, just fit to be played with, what good can I be to you? There are lots of pretty toys in the world. I thought you thought better of me.”
“So I do, goose. Don’t fish for compliments, though I will pay you one upon your chocolate. Is it too late for a song?”
“No, not for a quiet one.”
“Then turn out the lights and sing, will you?”
Her fingers ran almost aimlessly over the keys before she began to play, softly, the melody of an old country song—a haunting, melancholy air. Then she sang quietly, with a touch of tears in her voice, a simple ballad of a country maid and her false lover. When it was ended her hands dropped listlessly and there came over her a sudden gust of hatred of this mumming—this making believe to love a man who was a mere tool in her hands. But, until the work was complete, the tool must not be thrown aside.
“There are few people who sing like you, Marian; very few I care to hear. They’re mostly musical boxes, absolutely soulless. You—you sing a jolly song and people feel jolly; a sad one—and make me sad. How do you do it? What an inane question! As if you knew. There’s nothing in life worth having except emotions.”