"Ariel wasn't a woman, dear duffer. You'll have to read it. I'll lend it to you. And then we'll go again."
He shook his head.
"No."
"Yes—often—often, Robert. We've been nearer to one another than ever before—just these last minutes—quite, quite close. We've got to find each other in pleasure too."
He rallied all his strength. He said stiffly, pompously:
"It's been awfully nice, of course. And thank you for taking me. But
I don't really care for that sort of thing."
And for a moment they remained facing one another whilst the joy died out of her eyes, leaving a queer distress. Then they shook hands and he left her, coldly, prosaically, as though nothing had happened. But he was like a drunken man who had fallen into a sea of glory.
"The clouds, methought, would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me. . ."
There was all that work that he had meant to do before morning. It seemed far off—more unreal and fantastic than a fairy tale. His heart and brain, ached with willingness and loathing.
". . . that, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again. . ."