Nigel's face grew stern.
"Yes," he said. "I loathe condemnation. But there are some things which really are unforgivable."
He swung out his arm towards the light.
"And that is one of them. I hate to see that light so near us. It is the only blot on perfection."
"Don't look at it," she murmured.
His unusual expression of vigorous, sane disgust, and almost of indignation, partly fascinated and partly alarmed her.
"Don't think of it. It has nothing to do with us. Hark! What's that?"
A clear note, like the note of a little flute, sounded from the farther side of the stream, was reiterated many times. Nigel's face relaxed. The sternness vanished from it, and was replaced by an ardent expression that made it look almost like the face of a romantic boy.
"It's—it's the Egyptian Pan by the water," he whispered.
His arm stole round her waist.