But even as the light of triumph
blazed up in the woman's eyes, the man halted,--drew back; and his face
was turned from her as he listened to the sweetly appealing message of the
gentle spirit that made itself felt in the music of that hidden violin. It
was as though, in truth, the mountains, themselves,--from their calm
heights so remote from the little world wherein men live their baser
tragedies,--watched over him. "Don't you think we had better proceed with
our work?" he said calmly.
The light in the woman's eyes changed to anger which she turned away to
hide. Without replying, she went to her place and assumed the pose; and,
as she had watched him day after day when his eyes were upon the canvas,
she watched him now. Since that first day, when she had questioned him
about the unseen musician, they had not mentioned the subject,
although--as was inevitable under the circumstances--their intimacy had
grown. But not once had he turned from his work in that listening
attitude, or looked from the window as though half-expecting some one,
without her noting it. And, always, her eyes had flashed with resentment,
which she had promptly concealed when the painter, again turning to his
easel, had looked from his canvas to her face.
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