. ."
He caught hold of her. Everything was unreal--they themselves and the
unfamiliar street, painted with silver and black shadows.
"Don't--you're dancing away from me; there's nothing for you to dance
to."
She smiled back wistfully.
"'The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices. . .'"
"I don't hear them," he muttered clumsily.
"Caliban heard them----"
"And you're Ariel," he said, with sudden, sorrowful understanding.
"Ariel!"
From the steps of the dark house she looked down at him, her eager face
smiling palely in the white, still light.
"Ariel wasn't a woman, dear duffer. You'll have to read it. I'll lend
it to you. And then we'll go again."
He shook his head.
"No."
"Yes--often--often, Robert. We've been nearer to one another than ever
before--just these last minutes--quite, quite close. We've got to find
each other in pleasure too."
He rallied all his strength. He said stiffly, pompously:
"It's been awfully nice, of course. And thank you for taking me. But
I don't really care for that sort of thing."
And for a moment they remained facing one another whilst the joy died
out of her eyes, leaving a queer distress. Then they shook hands and
he left her, coldly, prosaically, as though nothing had happened. But
he was like a drunken man who had fallen into a sea of glory.
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