"Yes, but not until late."
"May I come?"
"Oh, no, don't. I don't know why I dread so to have you in my audience."
"But I've never heard you speak. Maybe you think I couldn't understand your speeches."
"Or maybe I'm afraid you'll find out how much of them you inspire."
They went to the garden on top of the Biltmore, and secured a table as far from people as possible. They looked off over the roofs, which in the half light took on romantic outlines of mosques and minarets. The twin spires of St. Patrick's were mistily dominating it all, as usual. Lights burst slowly, here, there, then the whole upper way was white with electric radiance.
"This has a certain grandeur, too," Barbara said.
He nodded acquiescence, reading her thought.
"It inspires and stimulates, but it never rests you. I wonder why one's kind is so exhausting?" He indicated the garden, now full to the last seat. The chatter, the raised voices, the whirr of electric fans, they all taxed tired nerves to the snapping point. Barbara caught his weary look.
"Do you use all that force we stored up in the hills?" she asked.