Even then John felt himself tongue-tied. Standing where she was, with that background of dark oil-paintings lit only by shaded electric lamps, she was more than ever like a wonderful old Egyptian statue into which some measure of slow-moving life had been breathed. He recognized almost with wonder the absence of any ornament of any sort on her neck or fingers.
"You were pleased with the performance, I hope?"
Her voice was in character with her personality. It was extremely low, scarcely louder than a whisper. To his surprise, it was almost wholly free from any foreign accent.
"It was very wonderful," John answered.
"You understood the story?"
"Only partly," he confessed.
"Would you have recognized me, seeing me as you do now?"
"Never in the world," he assured her.
"Tell me why I am so different off the stage."
"On the stage," he replied, "you seem to me to be the embodiment of wild movement. Here, you seem—forgive me—to be a statue. I can scarcely believe that you walked across the room."