There was another silence. The young man made an effort to speak: his lips trembled: it seemed that he had a sentence on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bring himself to speak it. Christophe eagerly studied his mobile face, the muscles of which he could see twitching under the clear skin: he did not seem to be of the same clay as the people all about him in the room, with their heavy, coarse faces, which were only a continuation of their necks, part and parcel of their bodies. In the young man's face the soul shone forth: in every part of it there was a spiritual life. He could not bring himself to speak. Christophe went on genially: "What are you doing among all these people?" He spoke out loud with that strange freedom of manner which made him hated. His friend blushed and could not help looking round to see if he had been heard: and Christophe disliked the movement. Then, instead of answering, he asked with a shy, sweet smile: "And you?" Christophe began to laugh as usual, rather loudly. "Yes. And I," he said delightedly. The young man at last summoned up his courage. "I love your music so much!" he said, in a choking voice. Then he stopped and tried once more, vainly, to get the better of his shyness. He was blushing, and knew it: and he blushed the more, up to his temples and round to his ears. Christophe looked at him with a smile, and longed to take him in his arms. The young man looked at him timidly. "No," he said. "Of course, I can't ... I can't talk about that ... not here...." Christophe took his hand with a grin. He felt the stranger's thin fingers tremble in his great paw and press it with an involuntary tenderness: and the young man felt Christophe's paw affectionately crush his hand. They ceased to hear the chatter of the people round them. They were alone together and they knew that they were friends. It was only for a second, for then Madame Roussin touched Christophe on the arm with her fan and said: "I see that you have introduced yourselves and don't need me to do so. The boy came on purpose to meet you this evening." Then, rather awkwardly, they parted. Christophe asked Madame Roussin: "Who is he?" "What?" said she. "You don't know him? He is a young poet and writes very prettily. One of your admirers. He is a good musician and plays the piano quite nicely. It is no good discussing you in his presence: he is mad about you. The other day he all but came to blows about you with Lucien Lévy-Coeur." "Oh! Bless him for that!" said Christophe. "Yes, I know you are unjust to poor Lucien. And yet he too loves your work." "Ah! don't tell me that! I should hate myself." "It is so, I assure you." "Never! never! I will not have it. I forbid him to do so."