But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window
from the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on
whimpering wings for a moment and then sheered out into the
sunlight.
They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more
was that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of
music, he not interrupting.
Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now
something of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical
career determined upon, death intervening dragging over her
isolation the steel meshes of destitution--the necessity for
self-support, a friend who knew a painter who employed models--not
anything unusual, not even dramatic.
He nodded as she ended: "Have you saved anything?"
"A hundred dollars."
"That's fine."
She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
"You are thinking," he said, "that youth is flying."
She smiled wistfully.
"Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too."
She nodded.
"You could have married."
"Why?" she asked, troubled.
"To obtain the means for a musical education."
She gazed at him in amazement, then: "I could go out on the street,
too, as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful."
"Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy," he
said. She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against
the golden table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms
beyond--Graylock's light eyes riveted upon them both.
"You know," he said, under his breath, "that I shall not marry you.
But--would you care to begin your studies again?"
There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted
until the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and
he saw her lip tremble.
"I had not thought you meant to ask me--that. I do not quite
understand what you mean."
"I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?"
"I was not sure you cared--enough--"
"Do you--for me?"
"Before I say that I do--care for you--" she began, tremulously
--"tell me that I have nothing to fear--"
Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man
who stared back at him.
Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
beauty of her.
"I'm going to tell you something," he said. "Love is no more
wonderful than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is
less fierce, and not as strong."