Truly he was improving.  His effort to betray no love had led him into a ridiculous compliment.  “What an idiot she will think me to say anything so silly!” he reflected; while Francesca was thinking, “He has ceased to love me, or he would not resort to flattery.  It is well!” but the pang that shot through her heart belied the closing thought, and, glancing at him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression of his eyes.  Seeing that, she directly took alarm, and commenced to talk upon a score of indifferent themes.

He had never seen her in such a mood:  gay, witty, brilliant,—­full of a restless sparkle and fire; she would not speak an earnest word, nor hear one.  She flung about bonmots, and chatted airy persiflage till his heart ached.  At another time, in another condition, he would have been delighted, dazzled, at this strange display; but not now.

In some careless fashion the war had been alluded to, and she spoke of Chancellorsville.  “It was there you were last wounded?”

“Yes,” he answered, not even looking down at the empty sleeve.

“It was there you lost your arm?”

“Yes,” he answered again, “I am sorry it was my sword-arm.”

“It was frightful,”—­holding her breath.  “Do you know you were reported mortally wounded? worse?”

“I have heard that I was sent up with the slain,” he replied, half-smiling.

“It is true.  I looked for your name in the columns of ‘wounded’ and ‘missing,’ and read it at last in the list of ‘killed.’”

“For the sake of old times, I trust you were a little sorry to so read it,” he said, sadly, for the tone hurt him.

“Sorry? yes, I was sorry.  Who, indeed, of your friends would not be?”

“Who, indeed?” he repeated:  “I am afraid the one whose regret I should most desire would sorrow the least.”

“It is very like,” she answered, with seeming carelessness,—­“disappointment is the rule of life.”

This would not do.  He was getting upon dangerous ground.  He would change the theme, and prevent any farther speech till he was better master of it.  He begged for some music.  She sat down at once and played for him; then sang at his desire.  Rich as she was in the gifts of nature, her voice was the chief,—­thrilling, flexible, with a sympathetic quality that in singing pathetic music brought tears, though the hearer understood not a word of the language in which she sang.  In the old time he had never wearied listening, and now he besought her to repeat for him some of the dear, familiar songs.  If these held for her any associations, he did not know it; she gave no outward sign,—­sang to him as sweetly and calmly as to the veriest stranger.  What else had he expected?  Nothing; yet, with the unreasonableness of a lover, was disappointed that nothing appeared.

Taking up a piece at random, without pausing to remember the words, he said, spreading it before her, “May I tax you a little farther?  I am greedy, I know, but then how can I help it?”