Belus shook Zora's shoulders when he returned from the concert. "Why,
your hair is wet; you must have been asleep on the balcony in the rain,"
he irritably fingered in the deaf code. Still possessed by the
melodious terror of her dream, the rare audible dream of one born to
silence, she arose from her chair and waved him a gentle good-night. He
stared moodily after her and rang for the servant....
The hearts of some women are as a vast cathedral. Its gorgeous high
altars, its sounding gloom, its lofty arches are there; and perhaps a
tiny taper burns before an obscure votive shrine. Many pass through life
with this taper unlighted, despite the pomps and pleasures of the
conjugal comedy. But others carry in the little chapel of their hearts a
solitary glimmering lamp of love which only flames out with death. Zora
knows this glimmering light is not love, but renunciation. Is not she
the wife of a great artist?