She did not know she desired him; but with him it was different.  He knew that he loved her, and he desired her as he had never before desired anything in his life.  He had loved poetry for beauty’s sake; but since he met her the gates to the vast field of love-poetry had been opened wide.  She had given him understanding even more than Bulfinch and Gayley.  There was a line that a week before he would not have favored with a second thought—­“God’s own mad lover dying on a kiss”; but now it was ever insistent in his mind.  He marvelled at the wonder of it and the truth; and as he gazed upon her he knew that he could die gladly upon a kiss.  He felt himself God’s own mad lover, and no accolade of knighthood could have given him greater pride.  And at last he knew the meaning of life and why he had been born.

As he gazed at her and listened, his thoughts grew daring.  He reviewed all the wild delight of the pressure of her hand in his at the door, and longed for it again.  His gaze wandered often toward her lips, and he yearned for them hungrily.  But there was nothing gross or earthly about this yearning.  It gave him exquisite delight to watch every movement and play of those lips as they enunciated the words she spoke; yet they were not ordinary lips such as all men and women had.  Their substance was not mere human clay.  They were lips of pure spirit, and his desire for them seemed absolutely different from the desire that had led him to other women’s lips.  He could kiss her lips, rest his own physical lips upon them, but it would be with the lofty and awful fervor with which one would kiss the robe of God.  He was not conscious of this transvaluation of values that had taken place in him, and was unaware that the light that shone in his eyes when he looked at her was quite the same light that shines in all men’s eyes when the desire of love is upon them.  He did not dream how ardent and masculine his gaze was, nor that the warm flame of it was affecting the alchemy of her spirit.  Her penetrative virginity exalted and disguised his own emotions, elevating his thoughts to a star-cool chastity, and he would have been startled to learn that there was that shining out of his eyes, like warm waves, that flowed through her and kindled a kindred warmth.  She was subtly perturbed by it, and more than once, though she knew not why, it disrupted her train of thought with its delicious intrusion and compelled her to grope for the remainder of ideas partly uttered.  Speech was always easy with her, and these interruptions would have puzzled her had she not decided that it was because he was a remarkable type.  She was very sensitive to impressions, and it was not strange, after all, that this aura of a traveller from another world should so affect her.

The problem in the background of her consciousness was how to help him, and she turned the conversation in that direction; but it was Martin who came to the point first.