She was choking.
"Oh--Fritz!" he said with scathing contempt.
"No, no, listen! You've got to listen." She put her hand on his arm.
"When Fritz saw me--afterwards he--he was afraid of me. He couldn't speak
to me. He just looked and said--and said--"
Tears were running down behind the veil. He put up his hand to hers,
which still touched his arm.
"Don't tell me what he said. What do I care? Viola, you know I've almost
longed for this--no, not that, but--can't you understand that when one
loves a woman one loves something hidden, something mystical? It's so
much more than a face that one loves. One doesn't want to live in a house
merely because it's got a nice front door."
He laughed again as if he were half ashamed of his own feeling.
"Is that true, Robin?"
The sound of her voice told him that he need not be afraid to be
passionate.
"Sit down here," he said.
They had reached an old stone bench at the end of the garden where the
woods began. Two cypresses towered behind it, sad-looking sentinels.
There was a gap in the wall here through which the lake could be seen as
one sat upon the bench.
"I want to make you understand, to make you trust me."
She sat down without speaking, and he sat beside her.
"Viola," he said, "there are many men who love only what they can see,
and never think of the spirit behind it. They care only for a woman's
body. For them the woman's body is the woman.
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