The Trespasser

'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.