Pity him for he was only a man, with a burning thirst for happiness, a mad longing for love and for peace.
Michael Kestyon kissed the little hand which had confirmed the promise of love spoken by the girl's pure lips. He looked up then and met her eyes. Heaven alone knows what he would have said or done the next moment. The Fates who in their distant, rock-bound cavern spin the threads of destiny decreed that these two people should —ere another word was spoken between them—be incontinently hurled from out the realms of romance wherein they had wandered hand in hand for over ten minutes.
For that—as we know—was the time limit set by maman, for allowing her daughter to be alone in the company of my lord. And Michael had only just time to free the small imprisoned hand so that it might wander back to the keys of the harpsichord ere Mme. Legros—rubicund, fussy and prosy—made irruption into the room.
Thus it was that for Michael Kestyon the gates of paradise remained for the nonce invitingly open, nor did the Fates give him another chance to close them against his own happiness.
CHAPTER XXI
Love took up the Harp of Life and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
—Tennyson.