He did not attempt to make a reply until they had gone into a small drawing room, and she had flung off her wrap.

They were alone.
Then he knelt on the rug before her and took both her hands in his own--a hand in each of his hands--as they lay on her dress.

His face was close to hers: she was in a low chair.

Each could hear the sound of the other's breathing--the sound of the other's heart-beats.

That duet went on for some minutes--the most perfect music in life--the music which is life itself--the music by which man becomes immortal.
"Do not hold me any longer, Bertie," said she.