"You never knew," he answered. "It was his last night in England. He had said good-bye to all he cared for, and he felt pretty bad. He knew what lay ahead of him—lonely, hard years and perhaps no return. So he did what he had never done before, because money and pleasure had not come his way—he took himself and his pain into a theatre. And there he saw you."
"Well—and then?"
"That's all. There was wonderful music, and you explained it to him. You showed him a new beauty that he had never dreamed of, you unlocked a door, and he entered a new world. When it was over he got up and left the theatre. He behaved like a boy—he went and stood by the river until day broke."
"And the photograph."
"He bought it to take with him."
She smiled to herself, tenderly, ironically.
"It did not occur to him to ask for my autograph—to seek me out."
"No, then you would have been a reality to him—an unattainable reality. He wanted you as a dream he could live with and conjure up at will."
"As he did by the backwater."
"Yes." He pointed out towards the grey bulk of the temple lying against the forest. His voice lost its habitual unevenness, and grew full and clear. "One thing you danced—do you remember?—the ballet in Robert le Diable? The scene was a churchyard—an ugly thing of cardboard and clumsy carpentering until you came. But out there is a real temple. At night the moon plays through the great sun-window of the sikhara and fills the space between the pillars. And I have gone there at night-time and seen you dance."