It soothed him. He seemed to be dreaming of flowery lands and running
streams. After a while she looked up again, and then with one of her
sudden movements like a graceful cat, she was beside him leaning from
the back of his chair.
"Paul!" she whispered right in his ear, "am I being wicked for you
to-day? I cannot help it. The devil is in me--and now I must sing."
"Sing then!" said Paul, maddened with again arising emotion.
She seized a guitar that lay near, and began in a soft voice in some
language he knew not--a cadence of melody he had never heard, but one
whose notes made strange quivers all up his spine. An exquisite
pleasure of sound that was almost pain. And when he felt he could bear
no more, she flung the instrument aside, and leant over his chair
again--caressing his curls with her dainty fingers, and purring
unknown strange words in his ear.
Paul was young and unlearned in many things. He was completely
enthralled and under her dominion--but he was naturally no weakling of
body or mind. And this was more than he could stand.
"_You_ mustn't be teased. My God! it is you who are maddening
me!" he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Do you think I am a
statue, or a table, or chair--or inanimate like that tiger there? I am
not, I tell you!" and he seized her in his arms, raining kisses upon
her which, whatever they lacked in subtlety, made up for in their
passion and strength.
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