Nina turned her head and looked up at the poet. His eyes were still following his vision. Her voice recalled him.
"Owen," she said, "will you bring the rest? Bring down all you've got."
Tanqueray saw as she spoke to him that there came again that betraying tenderness about her mouth; as she looked at him, her eyes lifted their hoods, revealing the sudden softness and surrender.
And as Tanqueray watched her he was aware that the queer eyes of the man were turned on him, rather than on Nina. They looked through him, as if they saw with a lucidity even more unendurable than his, what was going on in Tanqueray's soul.
He said something inaudible to Nina and went out of the room with a light, energetic stride.
"How can you stand his eyes?" said Tanqueray; "it's like being exposed to the everlasting stare of God."
"It is, rather."
"What's his name again?"
"Owen Prothero."
"What do you know about him."