down here now," he went on, with the ease of a man of the world speaking
to a young lady in a drawing-room, "hadn't we better sit down?"

She obeyed his inviting gesture, and they sat down on the nearest
chairs. They looked at each other across a little round table with a
surprised, open gaze, self-consciousness growing on them so slowly that
it was a long time before they averted their eyes; and very soon they
met again, temporarily, only to rebound, as it were. At last they
steadied in contact, but by that time, say some fifteen minutes from the
moment when they sat down, the "interval" came to an end.

So much for their eyes. As to the conversation, it had been perfectly
insignificant because naturally they had nothing to say to each other.
Heyst had been interested by the girl's physiognomy. Its expression was
neither simple nor yet very clear. It was not distinguished--that could
not be expected--but the features had more fineness than those of any
other feminine countenance he had ever had the opportunity to observe so
closely. There was in it something indefinably audacious and infinitely
miserable--because the temperament and the existence of that girl were
reflected in it. But her voice! It seduced Heyst by its amazing quality.
It was a voice fit to utter the most exquisite things, a voice which
would have made silly chatter supportable and the roughest talk
fascinating. Heyst drank in its charm as one listens to the tone of some
instrument without heeding the tune.

"Do you sing as well as play?" he asked her abruptly.

"Never sang a note in my life," she said, obviously surprised by the
irrelevant question; for they had not been discoursing of sweet sounds.
She was clearly unaware of her voice. "I don't remember that I ever had