For a moment or two they stood silently facing each other in the dark. Evan was not conscious of any embarrassment; he was too deeply moved. His conscious self was in abeyance. Moonlight, music and woman had bewitched him. He was in the grip of forces that played on him like an instrument. But someone had to speak in the end. It was Evan.
"What was that you were playing?" he asked simply.
"The moonlight sonata," she answered.
"Of course! That's why it sounded so exactly right. Won't you play again—please?"
She could not but have been aware how genuinely moved he was, but however it may have pleased her, womanlike, she sought to pull down the conversation to a safer plane.
"Oh, I can't!" she said. "I have unpacking to do. I was coming out to get a match to light the gas. I can't find any."
"I'll light the gas for you," he said eagerly. She stood aside to let him enter. The simple act thrilled him anew; she was not afraid of him; her spirit greeted his. When she turned around he could see her face etherealised in the moonlight, a lovely pale oval with two dark pools. There was a subtle perfume in the room that made him a little dizzy. In the act of striking a match he paused.
"Oh, it's a shame!" he said involuntarily.
"What is?" she asked.
"To light the gas on such a night."