“I think that nothing so bad could arrive,” he went on, pulling his moustache and looking at her as he spoke, “because I am very much more strong than anything that may arrive at me, and the music is still much more strong than I. But if that could arrive, that a trouble might kill my power, you can know how bad it would be for me.”
She sat there, gazing always at her new conception of him. The tears which she had shed during his music filled her face with a sort of tender charm. It did not occur to her that any words of hers could be other than a desecration of those minutes.
“I am going now,” he said presently, rising. “I have done no work since in June, but I feel it within me to write what I have played to-night.” He went over and took up the violin case and then he laid it down again and came back to her side.
“I shall kiss you,” he said, not in any tone of either doubt or entreaty, rather with an imperativeness that was final. “In the music that I go to write to-night I want to put your eyes and also your kiss.”
He put his arms about her and raised her to his bosom.
“Regardez-moi!” he commanded, and she lifted her eyes into his.
Their lips met, and the kiss endured.
Then he replaced her gently upon the sofa, took up the violin and went out.
Later that night she reproached herself bitterly.
“I ought to have a chaperone,” she told her pillow in strict confidence.