"After a fashion."
"Then I engage you at once to translate that book to me. What is it all about?"
He abandoned his seat on the couch and drew a chair close to hers. "Begin at the first page and read very slowly all the way through. I wish it were a three volume edition."
She looked at him with side glance. "You're not in the least subtle."
"I intended to have you understand that I enjoy the thought of your reading to me. Did you catch it?"
"I caught it. No one else ever suggested that I was stupid."
"I didn't call you stupid. I think you're haughty and domineering, but you're not stupid."
"Thank you," she answered, demurely.
Eventually they drew together, and she began to read the marvelous story of the crucial experiments which Morselli and his fellows laid upon Eusapia Palladino. Two hours passed. The robins and thrushes began their evensong, the shadows lengthened on the lawn, and still these young folk remained at their reading—Victor sitting so close to his teacher's side that his cheek almost touched her shoulder. The sunset glory of the material world was forgotten in the tremendous conceptions called up by the author of this far-reaching book.
Sweeter hours of study Victor never had. Seeing the rise and fall of his interpreter's bosom and catching the faint perfume of her hair, he heard but vaguely some of the sentences, and had to have them repeated, what time her eyes were looking straight into his. At such moment she reminded him of the dream-face that had bloomed like a rose in the black night, for she was then very grave. Less ardent of blood than he, she succeeded in giving her whole mind to the great Italian's thesis, and the point of view—so new and so bold—stirred her like a trumpet.