A flood of half-angry shame dyed his face and the
wound to his sensibilities showed its effect so plainly that the beauty
noted it with a sudden burst of compunction.
"Of a truth," she added, her voice grown wondrous soft, "I am full of
sympathy for thee, Kenkenes. Nay, look up. I can not be happy if thou
art not."
"That suffices. I am cheered," he began, but the note of sarcasm in
his voice was too apparent for him to permit himself to proceed. He
caught up the lyre, and drawing up a diphros--a double seat of fine
woods--rested against it and began to improvise with an assumption of
carelessness. Ta-meri sank back in her chair and regarded him from
under dreamy lids--her senses charmed, her light heart won by his
comeliness and talent. Kenkenes became conscious of her inspection, at
last, and looked up at her. His eyes were still bright with his recent
feeling and the hue in his cheeks a little deeper. The admiration in
her face became so speaking that he smiled and ran without pausing into
one of the love-lyrics of the day. Breaking off in its midst, he
dropped the lyre and said with honest apology in his voice:
"I crave thy pardon, Ta-meri. What right had I to weight thee with my
cares! It was selfish, and yet--thou art so inviting a confidante,
that it is not wholly my fault if I come to seek of thee, my oldest and
sweetest friend, the woman comfort that was bereft me with my rightful
comforter.
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