“Shall we stay in London?”
“No, no! How commonplace! We shall live in London. Suggest something new.”
“Shall we go into the country? To the real country, where there are nightingales and roses?”
She sang softly:
“The nightingale in fervent song
Doth woo the rose the whole night long.”
“Rubinstein, isn’t it?” he asked. “Well, will you come?”
“Yes, it is risky, but I will for once hear the nightingales and feel young again.”
“I love you.”
“Do you? Love—it is so old, so new, so impossible.”