The maid told me she was out when I came, and she hasn't returned yet." "She's been held up by the fog, I expect," answered Magda.

"Never mind.
I'll sit here--in this big chair--and you shall switch off these glaring lights and play to me, Antoine.

That will rest me better than anything." She was a little sorry for the man--trying to make up to him for the pain she knew she had inflicted a moment before, and there was a dangerous sweetness in her voice.
Davilof's eyes kindled.

He stooped swiftly and kissed her hand.
"You are too good to me!" he said huskily.
Then, while she lay back restfully in a chair which he heaped with cushions for her, he played to her, improvising as he played--slow, dreaming melodies that soothed and lulled but held always an undertone of passionate appeal.

The man himself spoke in his music; his love pleaded with her in its soft, beseeching cadences.
But Magda failed to hear it.