y forward and looking into the night. The
moonlight fell full upon her, and though she did not once look at him
or turn her head in his direction, he felt as though she must be
conscious of his presence, as though there were already an
understanding between them which she herself had established. She had
asked him to be her friend. That was only a pretty speech, perhaps;
but she had spoken of herself, and had hinted at her perplexities and
her loneliness, and he argued that while it was no compliment to be
asked to share another's pleasure, it must mean something when one was
allowed to learn a little of another's troubles.

And while his mind was flattered and aroused by this promise of
confidence between them, he was rejoicing in the rare quality of her
beauty, and in the thought that she was to be near him, and near him
here, of all places. It seemed a very wonderful thing to
Clay--something that could only have happened in a novel or a play.
For while the man and the hour frequently appeared together, he had
found that the one woman in the world and the place and the man was a
much more difficult combination to bring into effect. No one, he
assured himself thankfully, could have designed a more lovely setting
for his love-story, if it was to be a love-story, and he hoped it was,
than this into which she had come of her own free will. It was a land
of romance and adventure, of guitars and latticed windows, of warm
brilliant days and gorgeous silent nights, under purple heavens and
white stars. And he was to have her all to himself, with no one near
to interrupt, no other friends, even, and no possible rival. She was
not guarded now by a complex social system, with its responsibilities.
He was the most lucky of men. Others had only seen her in her
drawing-room or in an opera-box, but he was free to ford
mountain-streams at her side, or ride with her under arches of the
great palms, or to play a guitar boldly beneath her window. He was
free to come and go at any hour; not only free to do so, but the very
nature of his duties made it necessary that they should be thrown
constantly together.

The music of the violins moved him and touched him deeply, and stirred
depths at which he had not guessed. It made him humble and deeply
grateful, and he felt how mean and unworthy he was of such great
happiness. He had never loved any woman as he felt that he could love
this woman, as he hoped that he was to love her.