She would have died before she would have made the first advance, but it filled her as with secret fire.  Finally a sort of anger possessed her, anger at herself and at Horace.  She became horribly ashamed of herself, and angry at him because of the shame.  She gazed out at the wonderful masses of shadows which the trees made, and she gazed up again at the sky and that floating crystal, and it seemed impossible that it was within her as it was.  Her clear face was as calm as marble, her expression as immovable, her gaze as direct.  It seemed as if a man must be a part of the wonderful mystery of the moonlit night to come within her scope of vision at all.

Rose chilled, when she did not mean to do so, by sheer maidenliness.  Horace, gazing at her calm face, felt in some way rebuked.  He had led a decent sort of life, but after all he was a man, and what right had he to even think of a creature like that?  He leaned back in his chair, removing himself farther from her, and he also gazed at the moon.  That mysterious thing of silver light and shadows, which had illumined all the ages of creation by their own reflected light, until it had come to be a mirror of creation itself, seemed to give him a sort of chill of the flesh.  After all, what was everything in life but a repetition of that which had been and a certainty of death?  Rose looked like a ghost to his fancy.  He seemed like a ghost to himself, and felt reproached for the hot ardor surging in his fleshly heart.

“That same moon lit the world for the builders of the Pyramids,” he said, tritely enough.

“Yes,” murmured Rose, in a faint voice.  The Pyramids chilled her.  So they were what he had been thinking about, and not herself.

Horace went on.  “It shone upon all those ancient battle-fields of the Old Testament, and the children of Israel in their exile,” he said.

Rose looked at him.  “It shone upon the Garden of Eden after Adam had so longed for Eve that she grew out of his longing and became something separate from himself, so that he could see her without seeing himself all the time; and it shone upon the garden in Solomon’s Song, and the roses of Sharon, and the lilies of the valley, and the land flowing with milk and honey,” said she, in a childish tone of levity which had an undercurrent of earnestness in it.  All her emotional nature and her pride arose against Pyramids and Old Testament battle-fields, when she had only been conscious that the moon shone upon Horace and herself.  She was shamed and angry as she had never been shamed and angry before.

Horace leaned forward and gazed eagerly at her.  After all, was he mistaken?  He was shrewd enough, although he did not understand the moods of women very well, and it did seem to him that there was something distinctly encouraging in her tone.  Just then the night wind came in strongly at the window beside which they were sitting.  An ardent fragrance of dewy earth and plants smote them in the face.