"I was thinking of Emmy and not of myself," she laughed. "If you could take
care of her, it would be an excellent thing for you."

"She wouldn't even trust me with her luggage," said Septimus, miles away
from Zora's meaning. "Would you?"

She laughed again. "I'm different. I should really have to look after the
two of you. But you could pretend to be taking care of Emmy."

"I would do anything that gave you pleasure."

"Would you?" she asked.

They were sitting by the table--the atlas between them. She moved her hand
and touched his. The light of the lamp shone through her hair, turning it
to luminous gold. Her arm was bare to the elbow, and the warm fragrance of
her nearness overspread him. The touch thrilled him to the depths, and he
flushed to his upstanding Struwel Peter hair. He tried to say something--he
knew not what; but his throat was smitten with sudden dryness. It seemed to
him that he had sat there, for the best part of an hour, tongue-tied,
looking stupidly at the confluence of the blue veins on her arm, longing to
tell her that his senses swam with the temptation of her touch and the rise
and fall of her bosom, through the great love he had for her, and yet
terror-stricken lest she might discover his secret, and punish his audacity
according to the summary methods of Juno, Diana, and other offended
goddesses whom mortals dared to love. It could only have been a few
seconds, for he heard her voice in his ears, at first faint and then
gathering distinctness, continuing in almost the same breath as her
question.