Gore was silent. An unconquerable surprise—a reluctant fascination—held him chained, forgetful of the gathering darkness and of the gondola that awaited him at the foot of the steps.
As he stood hesitating, Clodagh spoke again.
"Don't you believe that things should be lived—not merely looked at?" she asked, her voice low and tense. Almost unconsciously the desire to interest this man, to win his attention, to compel him to share her opinions, had sprung into her mind.
Gore answered her with directness.
"No," he said. "All things cannot be lived."
His voice was quiet and controlled; the pose of his body, the look in his eyes, all suggested a tempered strength—a curbed vitality. The desire to dominate him rose higher, overshadowing every other sensation in Clodagh's brain.
She stepped nearer to him, her hand resting on the stone balustrade, her body bending forward.
"Don't you think that when life is so very short, we are justified in taking all we can—when we can?"
Her warm lips were parted, her eyes shone with an added light. She was walking on the edge of an abyss with the ardour of one whose gaze is fixed upon the sun. But Gore—seeing only the abyss—girded on his armour.
"No," he said slowly and deliberately. "No; that has never been my standpoint."