Carlotta, elbow on the table and chin in hand,
was looking deep into Pasquale's eyes, just as she has looked
into mine. Her lips had the half-sensuous, half-childish pout
provocative of kisses.
"Do, and I will love you," I heard her say.
Oh, those dove-notes, those melting eyes, those lips! Oh, the
horrible fool passion that burns out my soul and brain and
reduces me to rave like a lovelorn early Victorian tailor! Which
was worse I know not--the spasm of jealousy or the spasm of
self-contempt that followed it. At that moment the music ceased
suddenly on a loud crashing chord.
The moment seemed to be magnetic to all but Carlotta, who was
enjoying herself prodigiously. Our three personalities appeared
to vibrate rudely one against the other. I was conscious that
Judith read me, that Pasquale read Judith, that again something
telegraphic passed between them. The waiter offered me
partridge. Pasquale quickly turned from Carlotta to his
left-hand neighbour.
"I think we ought to drink Faust's health, don't you?"
I started.
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