intensely.

"Sometimes, you know, Mr. Witla," she sighed, "I do not like to think."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; I just can't tell you! I can't find words. I don't
know."

There was an intense pathos in her phrasing which meant everything to
his understanding. He understood how voiceless a great soul really might
be, new born without an earth-manufactured vocabulary. It gave him a
clearer insight into a thought he had had for a long while and that was
that we came, as Wordsworth expressed it, "trailing clouds of glory."
But from where? Her soul must be intensely wise--else why his yearning
to her? But, oh, the pathos of her voicelessness!

They went home in the car, and late that night, while he was sitting on
the veranda smoking to soothe his fevered brain, there was one other
scene. The night was intensely warm everywhere except on this hill,
where a cool breeze was blowing. The ships on the sea and bay were
many--twinkling little lights--and the stars in the sky were as a great
army. "See how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of
bright gold," he quoted to himself. A door opened and Suzanne came out
of the library, which opened on to the veranda. He had not expected to
see her again, nor she him. The beauty of the night had drawn her.

"Suzanne!" he said, when the door opened.

She looked at him, poised in uncertainty, her lovely white face glowing
like a pale phosphorescent light in the dark.

"Isn't it beautiful out here? Come, sit down."

"No," she said. "I mustn't stay. It is so beautiful!" She looked about
her vaguely, nervously, and then at him. "Oh, that breeze!" She turned
up her nose and sniffed eagerly.

"The music is still whirling in my head," he said, coming to her. "I
cannot get over tonight." He spoke softly--almost in a whisper--and
threw his cigar away. Suzanne's voice was low.

She looked at him and filled her deep broad chest with air. "Oh!" she
sighed, throwing back her head, her neck curving divinely.

"One more dance," he said, taking her right hand and putting his left
upon her waist.

She did not retreat from him, but looked half distrait, half entranced
in his eyes.

"Without music?" she asked. She was almost trembling.

"You are music," he replied, her intense sense of suffocation seizing
him.

They moved a few paces to the left where there were no windows and where
no one could see. He drew her close to him and looked into her face, but
still he did not dar