"And you are so young!" he said passionately, intensely.
"Sometimes, you know, Mr. Witla," she sighed, "I do not like to think."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know; I just can't tell you! I can't find words. I don't know."
There was an intense pathos in her phrasing which meant everything to his understanding. He understood how voiceless a great soul really might be, new born without an earth-manufactured vocabulary. It gave him a clearer insight into a thought he had had for a long while and that was that we came, as Wordsworth expressed it, "trailing clouds of glory." But from where? Her soul must be intensely wise—else why his yearning to her? But, oh, the pathos of her voicelessness!
They went home in the car, and late that night, while he was sitting on the veranda smoking to soothe his fevered brain, there was one other scene. The night was intensely warm everywhere except on this hill, where a cool breeze was blowing. The ships on the sea and bay were many—twinkling little lights—and the stars in the sky were as a great army. "See how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold," he quoted to himself. A door opened and Suzanne came out of the library, which opened on to the veranda. He had not expected to see her again, nor she him. The beauty of the night had drawn her.
"Suzanne!" he said, when the door opened.
She looked at him, poised in uncertainty, her lovely white face glowing like a pale phosphorescent light in the dark.
"Isn't it beautiful out here? Come, sit down."
"No," she said. "I mustn't stay. It is so beautiful!" She looked about her vaguely, nervously, and then at him. "Oh, that breeze!" She turned up her nose and sniffed eagerly.