Clodagh, staring down into the dark waters in an attitude of wrapt attention, drank in the song to its last note; and as the final vibration died away, she looked round at Deerehurst with an expression infinitely softened and enhanced.
"How beautiful!" she said. "Oh, how beautiful!"
Deerehurst, who had seated himself beside her, leant forward and rested his own arm upon the balcony railing.
"It is not the song that is beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "but the thoughts it has wakened in you."
Clodagh looked at him in silent question. She was still under the spell of the music, and saw nothing to resent in his cold gaze.
"You were the instrument," he went on in the same lowered voice. "The notes were not played upon the piano, but upon your brain. Your brain is a network of sensitive strings, waiting to be played on by every factor in life—music, colour, sunshine, emotion——" His tone sank.
Clodagh glanced quickly at his tall, thin figure, seated so close to her own, and at the wax-like, inscrutable face showing through the dusk.
"You seem to know me better than I know myself," she said uncertainly.
He watched her intently for a moment; then he leant forward, his long, pale fingers toying with the ribbon of his eyeglass.
"I do know you better than you know yourself."