"No, nor anywhere."
Philip led her to the shore and found a corner among the rocks from which they could watch the beaten silver of the billows rushing tumultuously landward, breaking in foam about their eyrie, and slipping back in myriad bridal veils.
"There is always one night in the summer, and this is the night," said Philip. "Think of viewing the moon in company with the goddess herself! If you only wouldn't mind leaning against my arm. I'm sorry to have that rock cutting into your dandy gown."
"Thank you, but it doesn't. I have a very good place here."
"Comfortable enough to tell me that you liked the music?"
Diana looked around at him slowly, and he laughed softly.
"Yes, I know you did. I know if I ever could sing, I sang to-night. There was something new in it. It taught me something, something I've been waiting for. They've always told me, my teachers, that the one thing I needed was to fall in love. It must have happened—happened, somehow, when I wasn't looking." Philip crossed his arms behind his head, leaned back and looked at the high sailing moon. "Thank you, great goddess Diana, I am at your feet. You have dropped upon me a spark of the divine fire. I build you an altar. The flame shall never go out."
The girl beside him bit her lip and silence fell between them. The bright billows swept in and crashed apart.
"I suppose that is what love means to an artist," she said at last. "The nourishing of his art. That is all."