It seemed as if a man must be a part of the wonderful mystery of the moonlit night to come within her scope of vision at all.
Rose chilled, when she did not mean to do so, by sheer maidenliness.
Horace, gazing at her calm face, felt in some way rebuked.

He had led a decent sort of life, but after all he was a man, and what right had he to even think of a creature like that?
He leaned back in his chair, removing himself farther from her, and he also gazed at the moon.

That mysterious thing of silver light and shadows, which had illumined all the ages of creation by their own reflected light, until it had come to be a mirror of creation itself, seemed to give him a sort of chill of the flesh.

After all, what was everything in life but a repetition of that which had been and a certainty of death?
Rose looked like a ghost to his fancy.

He seemed like a ghost to himself, and felt reproached for the hot ardor surging in his fleshly heart.
"That same moon lit the world for the builders of the Pyramids," he said, tritely enough.
"Yes," murmured Rose, in a faint voice.