"Oh, yes; in Paris and Italy. Shall I sing something for you?"
"If you will."
He looked up at her. There was just the glimmer of a smile in his eyes, such a curious smile, so wistful, almost beseeching, a pathetic smile that made her heart tremble in spite of her hatred of him, that extraordinary hatred which she had never been able to explain to herself, and for which she could have found not the shadow of a cause if she had dared to question herself upon the subject.
His hands continued to wander over the keys as if he were improvising, and after a little time his voice, sweet, gentle, so low that it could scarcely have been heard behind the portières that fell between them and the hall, floated out:
"'The solemn sea of silence lies between us;
I know thou livest and thou lovest me;
And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
Across the ocean, bearing word from thee.
"'The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness,
No anxious doubts of fears disturb my breast;
I only ask some little wave of language
To stir this vast infinitude of rest.
"'Too deep the language which the spirit utters,
Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred;
Send some white ship across the sea of silence
And interrupt its utterance with a word.'"
He had never removed his eyes from her while he was singing, but she had dropped hers. The crimson glow which she could not command had crept into her cheeks. His voice fell almost to a whisper, and as the last word left his lips, he lifted his hands from the keys and imprisoned both of hers together, leaning toward her with his splendid face uplifted.
"Do you know what that sea of silence is, Carlita?" he asked, his low voice thrilling through her like old wine. "It is that great gulf that lies between you and me. Shall I tell you more?