He did not ask himself whether it was the poetry of her eyes and lips, or her sincerity about herself, or the joy in art that was the key to her soul, or all of these, or something that was none of them.

He simply allowed himself to be possessed by it and Elfrida saw his pleasure in his eager look and in every line of his delicate features.

It was delicious to be able to give such pleasure, she thought.

She felt like a thrice spiritualized Hebe, lifting the cup, not to Jove, but to a very superior mortal.

She wished in effect, as she looked at him, that he were of her essence--she might be cup-bearer to him always then.