"How perfect a day!"
"It was weather like this when I first saw you," said Piers.
"Earlier, but just as bright. My memory of you has always lived in
sunshine. I saw you first from my window; you were standing in the
garden at Ewell; I heard your voice. Do you remember telling the
story of Thibaut Rossignol?"
"Oh yes, yes!"
"Is he still with your father?"
"Thibaut? Why, Thibaut is an institution. I can't imagine our house
without him. Do you know that he always calls me Mademoiselle
Irene?"
"Your name is beautiful in any language. I wonder how many times I
have repeated it to myself? And thought, too, so often of its
meaning; longed, for _that_--and how vainly!"
"Say the name--now," she faltered.
"Irene!--Irene!"
"Why, you make music of it! I never knew how musical it sounded.
Hush! look at that thing of light and air!"
The dragon-fly had flashed past them. This way and that it darted
above the shining water, then dropped once more, to float, to sail
idly with its gossamer wings.
Piers stole nearer. He sat on a stone by her side.
"Irene!"
"Yes. I like the name when you say it."
"May I touch your hand?"
Still gazing at the dragon-fly, as if careless of what she did, she
held her hand to him. Piers folded it in both his own.
"May I hold it as long as I live?"
"Is that a new thought of yours?" she asked, in a voice that shook
as it tried to suggest laughter in her mind.
Pages:
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475