” Ennison had things to say, but he looked at her and held his tongue. ‘Jacques?’ she called. It is the immediate inspiration of confidence; it alleviates pain, because we know by that smile that pain is soon to leave us; it becomes the bulwark against our depressive thoughts of death; and it is the promise that we still have a long way to go before we reach the Great Terminal. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door.
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