low, anxious wail. "And you won't do my Preface?"
"No, Princess, I won't do your Preface. Nothing would induce me to say a word in print about you. I'm in fact not sure I shall ever mention you in any manner at all as long as ever I live."
He had felt for an instant as if he were speaking to some miraculously humanised idol, all sacred, all jewelled, all votively hung about, but made mysterious, in the recess of its shrine, by the very thickness of the accumulated lustre. And "Then you don't like me—?" was the marvellous sound from the image.
"Princess," was in response the sound of the worshipper, "Princess, I adore you. But I'm ashamed for you."
"Ashamed—?"
"You are Romance—as everything, and by what I make out every one, about you is; so what more do you want? Your Preface—the only one worth speaking of—was written long ages ago by the most beautiful imagination of man."
Humanised at least for these moments, she could understand enough to declare that she didn't. "I don't, I don't!"
"You don't need to understand. Don't attempt such base things. Leave those to us. Only live. Only be. We'll do the rest."
She moved over—she had come close to the window. "Ah, but, Mr Berridge—!"
