He walked to the other side of the fire, behind her chair, and changed the subject suddenly.
"When shall you be able to take up your music again?" he asked, irrelevantly.
"Soon, I hope," she answered, but with a little shiver.
He saw it, and his conscience smote him. He believed that he had wronged her.
"Carlita!" he cried, unconscious that in his pain he had used her first name. "Carlita, don't allow a morose and morbid desire to conceal your real emotions make you false to yourself and all those higher and better attributes with which God has blessed you. You have sustained a terrible shock. Don't let it turn the very beauties of your sweet nature into a curse. You want something to turn to in your hour of trouble. Let it be your music. God gave you a talent which He intended as a comfort and sustaining power. Call upon it now. May I play to you?"
She did not reply, she could not; but already he had wandered toward the piano. He sat down absent-mindedly and passed his hands over the keys.
It reminded them both of that other evening when he had played for her, and they sang together, that evening when he had told her of a love of which he had no right to speak, which had no right to exist. A great, wild, turbulent passion rose up in his heart against himself, numbing his fingers.
For the first time within his remembrance the keys beneath his hands gave forth a discordant sound.
He stood up suddenly and looked at her.
She too had arisen.