'And I will be,' protested Byrne, flinging his hand at her. She laughed
softly, wearily.
For some time they were silent. She gazed once more at the photograph
over the piano, and forgot all the present. Byrne, spent for the time
being, was busy hunting for some life-interest to give her. He ignored
the simplest--that of love--because he was even more faithful than she
to the memory of Siegmund, and blinder than most to his own heart.
'I do wish I had Siegmund's violin,' she said quietly, but with great
intensity. Byrne glanced at her, then away. His heart beat sulkily. His
sanguine, passionate spirit dropped and slouched under her contempt. He,
also, felt the jar, heard the discord. She made him sometimes pant with
her own horror. He waited, full of hate and tasting of ashes, for the
arrival of Louisa with the coffee.