Yet she _had_ cared! He had only to recall the flashing revelation of
her eyes that night in the garden to know for one transcendent moment,
at least, she was his. It was the look that had sustained his faith in
her through all those weary months of silence, making him cling to the
belief, until he heard the truth from her own lips, that she had
failed to get his letter. It was the remembrance of that look and what
it had promised that rushed upon him now as he watched her.
All the reckless impulse of his boyhood, the long years of
unrestraint, surged over him, urging him on to wake in her some answer
to his fierce, insistent demand. She should remember the way he had
loved her, she should know the way he loved her now. If there was any
heart left in her she must respond in some way to his imperative need.
But her eyes kept steadily on the key-board, and her fingers
unfalteringly followed the notes. Could he have known how the tears
burned under her lashes, and how cold her fingers were on the keys;
could he have guessed how she sat there under his steady gaze, with
tense muscles and quivering nerves, calculating the minutes that must
elapse before Noah's interminable verses would end, and she could
escape, he might have had compassion on her.
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