She stopped, and he answered nothing. Looking down into the open piano, she idly watched the hammers move as she pressed the keys softly with one hand.
"Some people are just like this," she said, smiling, and repeating the action. "If you touch them in a certain way, they answer. If you press them gently, they do not understand. Do you see? The hammer comes just up to the string, and then falls back again without making any noise. I suppose those are my surroundings. Sometimes they answer me, and sometimes they do not. I like things I can be sure of."
"And by things you mean people," suggested Griggs.
"Of course."
"And by your surroundings you mean--what?"
"You know," she answered in a low voice, turning her face still further away from him.
"Reanda?"
She hesitated for a moment, knowing that her answer must have weight on the man.
"I suppose so," she said at last. "I ought not to say so--ought I? Tell me the truth."
"The truth is, you are unhappy," he answered slowly. "There is no reason why you should not tell me so. Perhaps I might help you, if you would let me."
He almost regretted that he had said so much, little as it was. But she had wished him to say it, and more, also. Still turning from him, she rested her chin in her hand. His face was still, but there was the beginning of an expression in it which she had never seen. Now that the window was shut it was very quiet in the room, and the air was strangely heavy and soft and dim. Now and then the panes rattled a little. Griggs looked at the graceful figure as Gloria sat thinking what she should say. He followed the lines till his eyes rested on what he could see of her averted face. Then he felt something like a sharp, quick blow at his temples, and the blood rose hot to his throat. At the same instant came the bitter little pang he had known long, telling him that she had never loved him and never could.
"Are you really my friend?" she asked softly.
"Yes." The word almost choked him, for there was not room for it and for the rest.
She turned quietly and surveyed the marble mask with curious inquiry.
"Why do you say it like that," she asked; "as though you would rather not? Do you grudge it?"
"No." He spoke barely above his breath.
"How you say it!" she exclaimed, with a little laugh that could not laugh itself out, for there was a strange tension in the air, and on her and on him. "You might say it better," she added, the pupils of her eyes dilating a little so that the room looked suddenly larger and less distinct.
She knew the sensation of coming emotion, and she loved it. She had never thought before that she could get it by talking with Paul Griggs.
He did not answer her.
"Perhaps you meant it," she said presently. "I hardly know. Did you?"
"Please be reasonable," said Griggs, indistinctly, and his hands gripped each other on his knee.
"How oddly you talk!" she exclaimed. "What have I said that was unreasonable?"
She felt that the emotion she had expected was slipping from her, and her nerves unconsciously resented the disappointment. She was out of temper in an instant.
"You cannot understand," he answered. "There is no reason why you should. Forgive me. I am nervous to-day."
"You? Nervous?" She laughed again, with a little scorn. "You are not capable of being nervous."
She was dimly conscious that she was provoking him to something, she knew not what, and that he was resisting her. He did not answer her last words. She went back to the starting-point again, dropping her voice to a sadder key.
"Honestly, will you be my friend?" she asked, with a gentle smile.
"Heart and soul--and hand, too, if you want it," he said, for he had recovered his speech. "Tell me what the trouble is. If I can, I will take you out of it."
It was rather an odd speech, and she was struck by the turn of the phrase, which expressed more strength than doubt of power to do anything he undertook.
"I believe you could," she said, looking at him. "You are so strong. You could do anything."
"Things are never so hard as they look, if one is willing to risk everything," he answered. "And when one has nothing to lose," he added, as an after-thought.
She sighed, and turned away again, half satisfied.
"There is nothing to risk," she said. "It is not a case of danger. And you cannot take my trouble and tear it up like a pack of cards with those hands of yours. I wish you could. I am unhappy--yes, I have told you so. But what can you do to help me? You cannot make my surroundings what they are not, you know."
"No--I cannot change your husband," said Griggs.
She started a little, but still looked away.
"No. You cannot make him love me," she said, softly and sadly.
The big hands lost their hold on one another, and the deep eyes opened a little wider. But she was not watching him.
"Do you mean to say--" He stopped.
She slowly bent her head twice, but said nothing.
"Reanda does not love you?" he said, in wondering interrogation. "Why--I thought--" He hesitated.
"He cares no more for me than--that!" The hand that stretched towards him across the open piano tapped the polished wood once, and sharply.
"Are you in serious earnest?" asked Griggs, bending forward, as though to catch her first look when she should turn.
"Does any one jest about such things?" He could just see that her lips curled a little as she spoke.
"And you--you love him still?" he asked, with pressing voice.
"Yes--I love him. The more fool I."
The words did not grate on him, as they would have jarred on her husband"s ear. The myth he had imagined made perfections of the woman"s faults.
"It is a pity," he said, resting his forehead in his hand. "It is a deadly pity."
Then she turned at last and saw his att.i.tude.
"You see," she said. "There is nothing to be done. Is there? You know my story now. I have married a man I worship, and he does not care for me.
Take it and twist it as you may, it comes to that and nothing else. You can pity me, but you cannot help me. I must bear it as well as I can, and as long as I must. It will end some day--or I will make it end."
"For G.o.d"s sake do not talk like that!"