Mrs. Luve came back. She placed two candles between them on the Pembroke table.
“Shut out the gas,” she said.
There was blackness, heavy, hot, clasping them both. Two jets of liquid glow tongued from the mellow wood, made the wood lift and gleam like a sun’s ray through moving cloud: cast wreathings subtle, evanescent, out against the blackness.
They were quiet. The candles ... two fingers rose, touched them across the table, joined them, hushed them.
“May I say something to you?”
“What, Mrs. Luve?”
“You have a tongue that speaks truth, you have a tongue that lies.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“You must not have a tongue that lies: for you have a tongue that is true.”
“Haven’t we all ...?”