"I wonder," she said almost timidly, "whether you could ever listen to me."
"Always," he said, bending nearer to see her expression. Which having seen, he perhaps forgot to note in his little booklet, for he continued to look at her.
"I haven't very much to say," she said. "Only—to learn any art or trade or profession it is necessary to work at it unremittingly. But to discuss it never helped anybody."
"My dear child," he said, "I know that what you say was the old idea. But," he shrugged, "I do not agree with it."
"I am so sorry," she said.
"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"I don't know.... Perhaps because I like you."
It was not very much to say—not a very significant declaration; but the simplicity and sweetness of it—her voice—the head bent a little in the starlight—all fixed Brown's attention. He sat very still there in the luminous dusk of the white veranda; the dew dripped steadily like rain; the lagoon glittered.[141]
Then, subtly, taking Brown unawares, his most treacherous enemy crept upon him with a stealth incredible, and, before Brown knew it, was in full possession of his brain. The enemy was Imagination.
Minute after minute slipped away in the scented dusk, and found Brown's position unchanged, where he lay in his chair looking at her.