his face was bright, and his knees, as he sat, were like the knees of the gods.
"You wanted the book of chansons?" she said.
"I wanted to learn your tunes," he replied.
"Yes. Look—here it is!" And she brought him the little yellow book. It was just a hand-book, with melody and words only, no accompaniment. So she stood offering him the book, but waiting as if for something else, and standing as if with another meaning.
He opened the leaves at random.
"But I ought to know which ones you sing," said he, rising and standing by her side with the open book.
"Yes," she said, looking over his arm. He turned the pages one by one. "Trois jeunes tambours," said she. "Yes, that . . . Yes, En passant par la Lorraine. . . . Auprès de ma blonde. . . . Oh, I like that one so much—" He stood and went over the tune in his mind.
"Would you like me to play it?" he said.
"Very much," said she.
So he got his flute, propped up the book against a vase, and played the tune, whilst she hummed it fragmentarily. But as he played, he felt that he did not cast the spell over her. There was no connection. She was in some mysterious way withstanding him. She was withstanding him, and his male super-power, and his thunderbolt desire. She was, in some indescribable way, throwing cold water over his phoenix newly risen from the ashes of its nest in flames.
He realised that she did not want him to play. She did not want him to look at the songs. So he put the book away, and turned round, rather baffled, not quite sure what was happening, yet feeling she was withstanding him. He glanced at her face: it was inscrutable: it was her Cleopatra face once more, yet with something new and warm in it. He could not understand it. What was it in her face that puzzled him? Almost angered him? But she could not rob him of his male power, she could not divest him of his concentrated force.
"Won't you take off your coat?" she said, looking at him
