“That some day the woman men—those men I’ve spoken of—loved would be struck down, and the real woman, the woman of the true beauty, the mystic, the spirit woman, would be set free. If this had not happened you could perhaps never have known who was the man that really loved you—that loved the real you, the you that lies so far beyond the flesh, the you that has sung and suffered—”
“Ah, suffered!” she said.
But there was a note of something that was not sorrow in her voice.
“If you want to know the man I mean,” Robin said, “lift up your veil, Viola.”
She sat quite still for a moment, a moment that seemed very long. Then she put up both hands to her head, untied the veil and let it fall into her lap. He looked at her, and there was silence. They heard the bees humming. There were many among the roses on the wall. She had turned her face fully towards him, but she kept her eyes on the veil that lay in her lap. It was covered with little raised black spots. She began to count them. As the number mounted she felt her body turning gradually cold.
“Fifteen—sixteen-seventeen”—she formed the words with her lips, striving to concentrate her whole soul upon this useless triviality—“eighteen—nineteen—twenty.”
Little drops of moisture came out upon her temples. Still the silence continued. She knew that all this time Robin was looking into her face. She felt his eyes like two knives piercing her face.
“Twenty-one—twenty-two—”
“Viola!”
He spoke at last and his voice was extraordinary. It was husky, and sounded desperate and guilty.