“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. She had but to choose. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. . She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London.
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