“Well?” he said, looking impassively out of the window.
“It is ridiculous, impossible. And if it were true, it would be disgraceful—something for you to be ashamed of.”
He turned his head slowly until his eyes met hers. She felt as if she were being caught up by some mighty force, perilous but intoxicating. She tried to look away but could not.
“What a voice you have!” he said. “It makes me think of an evening long ago in England. I was walking alone in the moonlight through one of those beautiful hedged roads when suddenly I heard a nightingale. It foretold your voice—you.”
She turned her eyes away and looked upon the darkening street. The sense of his nearness thrilled through her in waves that made her giddy.
“Now, do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I understand—and, for the first time in my life, I’m afraid.”
“Then you know why I, too, am afraid?”
“You must not speak of it again.”
They stood there silently for a moment or two, then she said: “I must be going.” And she was saying to herself in a panic, “I am mad. Where is my honour—my self-respect? Where is my common sense?”