In the silence that had fallen upon them, Blake had turned his face to the stars, but now again his glance sought hers.
"No, princess," he said, simply.
No weapons are more potent than brevity and simplicity. His answer brought the blood to her face as no long dissertation could have brought it; it was so direct, so personal, so compounded of subtle values.
"Then you have not known the highest?" It was not she who framed the question; some power outside herself constrained her to its speaking.
"I have recognized perfection," he said, "but I have not known it. And sometimes my weaker self—the primitive, barbaric self—cries out against the limitation; sometimes—"
"Sometimes—?"
"Nothing, princess—and everything!" With a sudden wave of self-control he brought himself back to the moment and its responsibilities. "Forgive me! And, if you are merciful, dismiss me! They say we Irish talk too much. I am afraid I am a true Irishman." He laughed, but there was a sound behind the laughter that brought tears to her eyes.
"Monsieur, it has been happy to-night?"
"It has been heaven."
"We are not wholly a trouble to you—Max and I?"