Standing erect under his hands, she looked hard into his face.
“You could frighten me, horribly; but you couldn’t shatter me. You are ambiguous, veiled, all in mists. I am as clear, as sharp—.”
Her dauntlessness, the old defiance, were a relief—a really delicious relief. He was able to smile at her, a smile that pled for reassurance. “How can I frighten you, then?”
Her somber gaze did not soften. “Your mists come round me, chill, suffocating. They corrode my clearness.”
“No; no; it’s you who come into them. Don’t. Don’t. Keep away from me.”
“I’m not so afraid of you as that,” she answered.
His hands were still on her shoulders and their eyes on each other—his with their appealing, uncertain smile, and hers unmoved, unsmiling; and suddenly that sense of danger came upon him: as if, in the mist, he felt upon him the breathing, warm, sweet, ominous, of some unseen creature. And in the fear was a strange delight, and like a hand drawn, with slow, deep pressure, across a harp, the nearness drew across his heart, stirring its one sad note—its dumb, its aching note—to a sudden ascending murmur of melody.
He was caught swiftly from this inner tumult by its reflection in her face. She flushed, deeply, painfully. She drew back sharply, pushing his hands from her.
Gavan sought his own equilibrium in an ignoring of that undercurrent.
“Now you are not frightened; but why are you angry?” he asked.