“His gaze was devouring; so might a man look at the woman he adored, in his anxiety.

“‘What! faint, Violet, alarmed!’ His voice was subdued, yet there was an unmistakable thrill of emotion in it.

“‘Pshaw!’ thought I to myself, ‘the man is a model husband.’

“She clinched her hands, and by sheer force of will seemed to pull herself together.  These nervous women have often an unexpected fund of strength.

“‘Come, that is well,’ said the baron with a flickering smile; ’Mr. Marshfield will think you but badly acclimatized to Poland if a little wolf scare can upset you.  My dear wife is so soft-hearted,’ he went on to me, ’that she is capable of making herself quite ill over the sad fate that might have, but has not, overcome you.  Or, perhaps,’ he added, in a still gentler voice, ’her fear is that I may expose myself to danger for the public weal.’

“She turned her head away, but I saw her set her teeth as if to choke a sob.  The baron chuckled in his throat and seemed to luxuriate in the pleasant thought.

“At this moment folding doors were thrown open, and supper was announced.  I offered my arm, she rose and took it in silence.  This silence she maintained during the first part of the meal, despite her husband’s brilliant conversation and almost uproarious spirits.  But by and by a bright color mounted to her cheeks and luster to her eyes.  I suppose you will think me horribly unpoetical if I add that she drank several glasses of champagne one after the other, a fact which perhaps may account for the change.

“At any rate she spoke and laughed and looked lovely, and I did not wonder that the baron could hardly keep his eyes off her.  But whether it was her wifely anxiety or not—­it was evident her mind was not at ease through it all, and I fancied that her brightness was feverish, her merriment slightly hysterical.

“After supper—­an exquisite one it was—­we adjourned together, in foreign fashion, to the drawing-room; the baron threw himself into a chair and, somewhat with the air of a pasha, demanded music.  He was flushed; the veins of his forehead were swollen and stood out like cords; the wine drunk at table was potent:  even through my phlegmatic frame it ran hotly.

“She hesitated a moment or two, then docilely sat down to the piano.  That she could sing I have already made clear:  how she could sing, with what pathos, passion, as well as perfect art, I had never realized before.

“When the song was ended she remained for a while, with eyes lost in distance, very still, save for her quick breathing.  It was clear she was moved by the music; indeed she must have thrown her whole soul into it.

“At first we, the audience, paid her the rare compliment of silence.  Then the baron broke forth into loud applause.  ’Brava, brava! that was really said con amore.  A delicious love song, delicious—­but French!  You must sing one of our Slav melodies for Marshfield before you allow us to go and smoke.’