I looked once, because the moonbeam led me into it before I
realised; then I stole away from the window and into my own room,
closing the door softly behind me.

We had so far been looking only at conventionalities, preliminaries,
things that all (who had eyes to see) might see; but this was
different--quite, quite different.

They were as beautiful under the friendly shadow of their urban oak-
tree as were ever Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of the Capulets.
I may not tell you what I saw in my one quickly repented-of glance.
That would be vulgarising something that was already a little
profaned by my innocent participation.

I do not know whether Terence was heir, even ever so far removed, to
any title or estates, and I am sure Patricia did not care: he may
have been vulgarly rich or aristocratically poor. I only know that
they loved each other in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs
or ands or buts; that he worshipped, she honoured; he asked humbly,
she gave gladly.

How do I know? Ah! that's a 'Penelope secret,' as Francesca says.

Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe in
your heart that it was an ordinary ball, where a lot of stupid
people arrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not
think his name was Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as
that in blindness and incredulity I should not expect you to
translate properly what I saw last night under the oak-tree, the
night of the ball on the opposite side, when Patricia made her