Winthrop flushed eagerly, never observing the curious break in her voice, then a sort of generous remorse took possession of him that he had found pleasure in that unjust criticism passed upon his friend.
"Oh, really, you mustn't say that!" he stammered, helplessly. "It isn't true of Leith, not the least in the world. I don't know a fellow more lacking in conceit than he. He is as generous and—"
"Pouf!" exclaimed Carlita, with the freedom of a privileged friend. "Do you think you can make me believe that? He thinks that every woman who looks at him is ready to fall into his arms if he would but say the word. There are times when I positively detest him, and—"
Singularly enough, she did not complete her sentence. She suddenly realized with a surprise that was intense that there were tears in her eyes, hot, angry tears, though why she should be angry, she had not the remotest idea. She hated herself for her absurd weakness, and sprang up swiftly and went to the piano, and rattled off a waltz that came more nearly being without time or melody than anything she had ever attempted in her life before.
She excused herself to herself by mentally asserting that the book, "Ships that Pass in the Night," had upset her, and then turned into a song that trembled upon her lips with a sweetness and pathos that her voice had never contained before.
It was only an old song, such an old one, with the music entirely unworthy of the exquisite words, but she sang it with a depth of feeling that made it sublime.
"How tired we feel, my heart and I,
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet;
What do we here, my heart and I?"
But the last words were not spoken. They ended in a little sob, a little sob that would not be drowned by the power of the will. She would have risen and escaped from the room, but that Olney caught her about the waist, his face white and wistful and filled with apprehension.
"Carlita," he exclaimed, his voice low and soft with tenderness, "what is it? What has distressed you? You trust me—"
"It is nothing," she cried, endeavoring gently to free herself. "I am too stupid for anything. I really believe I am hysterical over that absurd book, and it is something new to me, too. You mustn't mind me, Mr. Winthrop, for—"