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At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. . He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear.
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