tingling sense of joy, a keenness of perception, a fine, delicate tingling as of music.
“You know,” he said, repeating himself, “it is true. You seem to have knit all things in a piece for me. Things are not separate; they are all in a symphony. They go moving on and on. You are the motive in everything.”
Helena lay beside him, half upon him, sad with bliss.
“You must write a symphony of this—of us,” she said, prompted by a disciple’s vanity.
“Some time,” he answered. “Later, when I have time.”
“Later,” she murmured—“later than what?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “This is so bright we can’t see beyond.” He turned his face to hers and through the darkness smiled into her eyes that were so close to his. Then he kissed her long and lovingly. He lay, with her head on his shoulder, looking through her hair at the stars.
“I wonder how it is you have such a fine natural perfume,” he said, always in the same abstract, inquiring tone of happiness.
“Haven’t all women?” she replied, and the peculiar penetrating twang of a brass reed was again in her voice.
“I don’t know,” he said, quite untouched. “But you are scented like nuts, new kernels of hazel-nuts, and a touch of opium….” He remained abstractedly breathing her with his open mouth, quite absorbed in her.
“You are so strange,” she murmured tenderly, hardly able to control her voice to speak.
