His fine eyes sparkled mischievously, and he bowed to her.
"No, sir. I make my mint cordial from my own garden, and I know what is in it; but you can't be sure about foreign-fangled mixtures."
"I wish to make sure that delicious gumbo-filé will not give me nightmare."
"Father, I begged you not to touch it, and you had your favorite clam bouillon the doctor commends so highly."
"Bouillon—gumbo-filé? 'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.' My duchess, don't scold. Your pretty mouth was made for sweeter uses. Kiss me."
He brushed his white mustache aside, and leaning down she pressed her lips to his.
"Father, are you quite well to-night?"
"Quite well, and absolutely happy. Now, give me some music to round out and seal this glorious, perfect day."
She opened the upright piano, and while she played one of his favorite fugues—Handel's in E minor—he kept time, swinging the tiny, gilded glass. Flickering flames in the wide chimney were reflected on the polished rosewood panels of the piano, and as they wavered up and down before her, Eglah thought of spectral auroral fringes flashing in moonless Polar night, staining with prismatic hues the world of snow, kindling red beacons on pinnacles of immemorial ice.
The fugue ended, and as her fingers left the keys a tinkling crash caused her to turn her head.