“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.
“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”
She was silent.
“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”
“No,” she murmured.
“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”
“This is pure mysticism!” she said.
“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple. When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”
“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”
“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”