The music filled Corbin with desperate longing and regret. It was so
truly the translation of his own feelings that he was alternately
touched with self-pity and inspired to fresh resolve. It seemed to
assure him that love such as his could not endure without some
return. It emboldened him to make still another and a final appeal.
Mrs. Warriner, with all the other people in the room, was watching
Edouard, and so, unobserved, and hidden by the flowers upon the
table, Corbin leaned toward Miss Warriner and bent his head close to
hers. His eyes were burning with feeling; his voice thrilled in
unison to the plaint of the violin.
He gave a toss of his head in the direction from whence the music
came.
"That is what I have been trying to tell you," he whispered. His
voice was hoarse and shaken. "That is how I care, but that man's
genius is telling you for me. At last, you must understand." In his
eagerness, his words followed each other brokenly and impetuously.
"That is love," he whispered. "That is the real voice of love in all
its tenderness and might, and--it is love itself. Don't you
understand it now?" he demanded.
Miss Warriner raised her head and frowned.
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