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 She turned to the piano. He drew the easy-chair into a position which enabled him to watch her face. Then she began to sing.

She sang and played to him, bene placito, filling in the interludes with snatches of conversation to the low accompaniment of the piano. Perseus lay back in his chair and watched her every movement of supple body and supple wrist. There were no contortions of the face, no straining at top notes. Such voice as she possessed was admirably produced, the best being got out of it with the least effort. Sentimental ballad or showy chanson came alike to her: she was pathetic and brilliant by turns. One quaint French piece set his blood singing, his pulses leaping. “Amour, amour”—the world seemed full of love. Everything else faded into nothingness. There was nothing worth living for but love—the love of a man and a woman! There came to him a great longing to take her in his arms and hold her close, so close that he could count every beat of her heart, every struggling breath, hear the singing of her blood as it coursed madly through her veins. And yet he sat with chin in hand and watched her, outwardly so greatly