Brodrick was right. Nina was not there.
At the moment when Jane arrived, anxious and expectant, in Kensington
Square, Nina and Tanqueray were sitting by the window of the room in
Adelphi Terrace.
They were both silent, both immobile in the same attitude, bowed
forward, listening intently, the antagonistic pair made one in their
enchantment, their absorption.
A young man stood before Tanqueray. He stood a little behind Nina where
she sat in the window-seat. One shoulder leaned beside her against the
shutter. He was very tall, and as he stood there his voice, deep and
rhythmic, flowed and vibrated above them, giving utterance to the thing
that held them.
Nina could not see him where she sat. It was Tanqueray who kept on
looking at him with clear, contemplative eyes under brows no longer
irritable.
He was, Tanqueray thought, rather extraordinary to look at. Dressed in a
loosely-fitting suit of all seasons, he held himself very straight from
the waist, as if in defiance of the slackness of his build. His eyes,
his alien, star-gazing eyes, were blue and uncannily clear under their
dark and delicate brows. He had the face of a Celt, with high
cheek-bones, and a short high nose; the bone between the nostrils,
slightly prominent like a buttress, saved the bridge of it from the
final droop. He had the wide mouth of a Celt, long-lipped, but
beautifully cut. His thick hair, his moustache, his close-clipped,
pointed beard, were dark and dry. His face showed a sunburn whitening.
It had passed through strange climates. He had the look, this poet, of a
man who had left some stupendous experience behind him; who had left
many things behind him, to stride, star-gazing, on. His face revealed
him as he chanted his poems. Unbeautiful in detail, its effect as a
whole was one of extraordinary beauty, as of some marvellously pure
vessel for the spiritual fire. Beside him, it struck Tanqueray that Nina
showed more than ever a murky flame.
The voice ceased, but the two remained silent for a moment.