Diana’s voice rose faint but sweet:—
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose thus bepearled with dew?
Lady Chillingburgh, with closed lids, beat time vaguely on the arm of her chair; Edward Hare pondered over his last mouthful of wine; the Frenchwoman was muttering to herself and drawing, under the shadow of the curls, restless patterns on the table with her forefinger. Lionel sat beside her, his starting eyes upon her face.
I will whisper to your ears:
The sweets of Love are mixed with tears!
sang Diana, in a voice that had grown firmer and clearer.