“Oh, I’m so glad. If you weren’t so terribly virtuous, I would kiss you.”
Involuntarily, he moved a pace or two away from her. She held out her hand.
“Don’t be afraid, dear friend!” She smiled on him. “If you are happy, I am also. And now, I suppose, you’ll be going to London and I shall see you no more. Poor Judith!”
“Yes,” he answered, “I shall be going soon. It describes a storm—the gathering of a storm: clouds coming out of the vacant blue and massing together: yellow, treacherous vapours emerging from God knows where: enmity in the air. But the storm never breaks. All the thick, heavy passions of nature mingle until they become clogged. And then the music stops, choked by its own congestion.”
Judith did not understand him: he was just a little mad, she thought.
“I do hope it will be a success,” she said. “I’m sure it will. But I wish I was coming to London with you to hear it.”
He glanced at her rather shyly.
“Do you?” he asked. “Do you, really?”
“Why, of course I do. I want to see your success: I want to be with you in the midst of it.”
“Perhaps, some day ...” he said, vaguely, blushing a little. “Well, good-bye,” he added, “I must be off to the Café now.”