Broussard, with rage and chagrin in his heart, remembered that Anita had probably seen him standing in the passage-way of Lawrence’s quarters, with Mrs. Lawrence’s shapely hand on his shoulder.  He remained calm and smiling, nevertheless, and exerted to the utmost his power to please.  But Anita remained calm and smiling, and maddeningly aloof.  Broussard, inwardly cursing himself, made up his mind to have it out with the Colonel the next day about the Lawrence affair.

When dinner was over and the men had come in from the smoking-room, Mrs. Fortescue asked Broussard if he would sing; Neroda was already there to play his accompaniments and Anita, would play the violin obligato.

Broussard was not loth to show his accomplishments and he had a very good will to try the magic of his voice upon Anita, gracious, and obstinate and smiling.

The guests, in a circle in the drawing-room, watched and listened to the group at the piano—­Neroda, short and swarthy, with a rancorous voice; Anita, in her blonde beauty, looking like another St. Cecilia, and Broussard, dark and handsome, like Faust, the tempter.

With deep intent Broussard selected the most passionate of all his passionate songs.  It asked the old, old question, “I love thee; dost thou love me?” Neroda struck into the accompaniment and Broussard’s voice, a tenor, with the strength and feeling of a baritone, took up the song, while the music of Anita’s violin delicately threaded the harmonies, ever following and responding to Broussard’s voice.  All of Anita’s coldness vanished at the first strain of the music; Broussard’s voice penetrated her heart and inspired her hand.  When the song was over and she laid her violin down on the piano she was once more the palpitating, shy enthusiast, the half-child, half-woman who had captivated Broussard at the first glance.

During the interludes between the songs it was plain they forgot all except each other.  They turned over songs and read the titles to each other, Broussard sometimes singing, under his breath, the words.  Then, when he sang them in full voice he infused all the verve, the passion, the feeling he knew so well how to command, and played upon Anita’s heart-strings with the hand of a master, as Anita played upon the strings of her violin.  The men and women, listening and charmed, smiled at each other; evidently a love affair was on foot such as everybody had expected since the night of the music ride.  Colonel Fortescue alone was grave, leaning back in his chair with sombre eyes fixed on Broussard.  He saw in Broussard a wild young officer who needed a stern warning about a soldier’s handsome wife; and, while watching him, Colonel Fortescue was phrasing the very words in which he meant to call Broussard to account the next day, for the Colonel was not a man to postpone a disagreeable duty.  It would be a very disagreeable duty; the poignant memory of Anita lying on the tanbark and Broussard having the skill to save her, still haunted Colonel Fortescue’s thoughts and came to him in troubled dreams.  And Anita—­undoubtedly Broussard had impressed her imagination, and she was a creature of such strong fibre that she must love and suffer more than most human beings the Colonel knew, well enough.