There was such merriment in the dark-lashed eyes, I defy Eli Kirke himself to have taken offence; and so, like many another youth, I was all too ready to be the pipe on which a dainty lady played her stops. As the song faded to the last tinkling notes of the spinet her fingers took to touching low, tuneless melodies like thoughts creeping into thoughts, or perfume of flowers in the dark. The melting airs slipped into silence, and Hortense shut her eyes, "to get the memory of it," she said. I thought she meant some new-fangled tune.
"This is memory enough for me," said I.
"Oh?" asked Hortense, and she uncovered all the blaze of the dark lights hid in those eyes.
"Faith, Hortense," I answered, like a moth gone giddy in flame, "your naughty music wakes echoes of what souls must hear in paradise."
"Then it isn't naughty," said Hortense, beginning to play fiercely, striking false notes and discords and things.
"Hortense," said I.
"No—Ramsay!" cried Hortense, jangling harder than ever.
"But—yes!—Hortense——"
And in bustled M. Picot, hastier than need, methought.
"What, Hillary? Not a-bed yet, child? Ha!—crow's-feet under eyes to-morrow! Bed, little baggage! Forget not thy prayers! Pish! Pish! Good-night! Good-night!"