He knew himself, after
much experience of the sort; he had missed so often by blundering in, that
now he dared not risk a wreck. Here at last, he told himself, was
perfection: let him look to it that he kept it at its perfect poise. He
must poise himself to do that, balance himself upon a knife-edge. Little
of an ascetic as he was by temper, he could train himself to the last
ounce if the prize were worth it. And it was. Never had musician had
instrument more sensitive to play upon. It seemed to him worthy of a
lifetime of preparation to have her for one moment of time throbbing in
his arms.
[Illustration: The great music went sobbing and chiding through her frame,
like wounded nightingales.]
So Morosine went into the palaestrum, and fasted with prayer. His
_sangfroid_ through _Tristan,_ and the going out with all its cry ringing
in him, and in her, surprised even himself, who knew himself well. "My
friend," he thought, as he stalked to his club, "you have done well."
But he had not reckoned with the flinty core which lay beneath her fair
and delicate seeming. Her frugality of utterance, which charmed and
chained him, really implied no reserve. She did not speak, because she had
nothing to say, did not reveal herself, because she knew of no mystery.
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