That was only a way of putting it, for there was no sex in the music he had just heard. He had sat so close to Margaret that their arms constantly touched, yet he had forgotten that she was there. If the music had been Tristan and Isolde he could not have been unaware of her, for a moment, for that is the supreme sex-music of Wagner's art. But this was different, altogether different, though it was even stronger than that.
He forgot to look at his watch. Margaret came out of the hotel, expecting to find him waiting for her within the hall, and prepared to be annoyed with him for taking so long over a meal. She stood on the step and looked about, and saw him sitting on the bench at a little distance. He raised his eyes as she came towards him and then rose quickly.
'Is it time?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said. 'Did you get anything decent to eat?'
'Yes,' he answered vaguely. 'That is, now I think of it, I forgot about dinner. It doesn't matter.'
She looked at his hard face curiously and saw a dead blank, the blank that had sometimes frightened her by its possibilities, when the eyes alone came suddenly to life.
'Won't you go in and get a biscuit, or a sandwich?' she asked after a moment.
'Oh, no, thanks. I'm used to skipping meals when I'm interested in things. Let's go, if you're ready.'
'I believe you are one of nature's Wagnerites,' Margaret [{169}] said, as they drove up the hill again, and she smiled at the idea.
'Well,' he answered slowly, 'there's one thing, if you don't mind my telling you. It's rather personal. Perhaps I'd better not.'