he was mocking Rayne and mocking me; so that that she-devil was as the laughter inside the laughter, the aerial merriment that came from Comus under the low horizon clouds. Her song had bewitched me. I had been positively arrayed against Rayne a moment ago. I was bewildered.
I watched Sir James and Miss Cholmondeley cross into the piano-room again, talking about Retsky's conception of the Lullaby. I looked at Rayne. I sat down in the chair I had sat in before going down to dinner. The sensations of being in the chair unsettled my bewilderment. I spoke, scarcely expecting to hear my voice's sounds.
'That was a wonderful song, the Lullaby.'
'Yes,' said Rayne, looking at me.
Her look shot through me. I scarcely realised what it meant: I only felt it,—felt it, it seemed to me, in every part of my body and my soul. A mass of ideas rushed into my mind. My eyes flashed.
We spoke some words together. I do not know what I said. I do not think she knew what she said. Surely some feeling was in her, as it was in me? There was a sense of mystery in this half-sympathy of ours. I went on speaking to her, not knowing what I said (We were in a low soft melody that rose and fell, and rose and fell. We were alone.), and not knowing what she said, or what she thought; but she knew, not what I said, but what I thought. My thoughts grew more distinct:
'Rayne, Rayne, I will not leave you! I will rend you from him. He shall not have you. Let him have his soft-bodied harlot there. You are the queen of my soul.'
I knew that they were together in the next room, and that she was playing that soft melody that rose and fell and rose and fell. We were alone. There was something of the villain and his chance in my heart.—I looked at her. Ay, she was dazed, a little dazed; not altogether. But how could I get her away? Get her away? I clenched my teeth. Take her by the hand, lead her out, away! away! away!
'Rayne!' I said, 'Rayne! Listen to me. It is the
