Ella looked across the room to the piano where the Herzigovinan rhapsody was in full tumult of crashing chords, and then edged nearer Sylvester on the couch where they were sitting.
“Are you aware that you are committing an impertinence in speaking to me like that?” she said in an undertone. “How dare you? I acknowledge Uncle Matthew as my guardian. But you—what right have you to touch upon my affairs? What concern can you have in them?”
“Absolutely none,—personally. But my father is dear to me. If I could break off your engagement to please him, I should do so.”
“Are you going to try?”
“Yes, I shall try,” he replied coldly. Their eyes met in undisguised enmity.
“It would take a better man than you, Sylvester Lanyon,” she said.
She rose and walked to the fireplace, with an air of great stateliness. Sylvester did not attempt to follow her, but lay back on the couch as if rapt in the music. But his evil mood was upon him. He had at once divined her desire to wound him in his tenderest spot. It was like a woman. He felt a great scorn for her. The music suddenly ceased. He uttered a conventional murmur. Roderick broke into ecstatic comment.
“A divine genius! Interpreting the message of the wild winds of his mountain fastnesses,—the elemental throbbing in the hearts of his rugged forefathers. Ella, Moskovic must come to Walden. This supreme spirit must not be clogged by the banality of London concert rooms. He must breathe the freedom of the woods and streams.”
“He has half consented already,” said Ella.
“The silly fool!” muttered Sylvester, beneath his breath.