The Centaurians
of language was magnificent in the lengthy scientific explanation she gave of how she intended to vanquish the sleeping north. I was not sufficiently familiar with the language to follow her clearly, but this I did understand, were I not so desperately enamoured I certainly would have found her tedious. All intensely intellectual women are tedious. The idea of love is always more poignant than love, and I realized the task of teaching this strange creature the science of affection would be a heavy one.
Softly, musingly, she continued her learned explanations. Science absorbed her; the exquisite flower face grew cold, hard, expressionless. My romantic imagination lingered around this beautiful, fascinating enigma, illusive, desirable, yet every word she uttered forced the realization of an infinite barrier of remoteness—a phantom ever. But we can ardently worship the moon, and my rapt gaze finally drew her attention. Slowly she passed her hand over her brow, then abruptly asked if I comprehended all she said.
"Every word," I replied gallantly.
"Then I must see you again," she told me.
I sprang to my feet in alarm. "Was it not your intention to see me again?" I asked.
"I encounter new faces daily," she answered. "They sail from my vision as the clouds overhead. You have interested me. I have mentioned the secret—my daring secret—from you I can learn much that is important. Yes, I must see you again."
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