“Is not privacy the very essence of all sweet sounds and thoughts? To risk interruption is to risk the jarring of their lovely sequence. No, we are happiest where we are, apart and secluded. The loneliest bower is that where the bird sings his song to an end.”
She rose hastily, and with an effort to control her agitation.
“I will go and fetch it,” she said. “It is not here.”
He sought to detain her.
“Does not your brother know the place?”
Arran interposed. Some vague uneasiness, perhaps, was making itself felt in the shallow brain of the nincompoop.
“No, by my thoul, your Highneth,” he said, “nor underthtand if she told me.”
Kate hurried to the door. As she did so, a feminine form outside whisked into the near shelter of some hangings. Then, foreseeing certain detection if she remained where she was, waited until the issuing figure had vanished down a passage, when she herself slipped away incontinent in another direction.
The Duke in the meanwhile sat frowning and silent, half suspecting a ruse on the lady’s part to escape him. But in that he did the Countess too much or too little justice. For whatever reason—of honour or perversity; you may take your choice—Kate acquitted herself faithfully of her errand, and came back with the guitar; whereat the royal brow cleared wonderfully.
And Arran played the saraband—this time to perfection, exclaimed his Highness. Sweet melody, sweet touch, and sweetest atmosphere—it had been all a banquet of delight, served, as it were, amidst the tenderest surroundings, in a self-contained corner of Eden, by the most paradisical of chefs. The Duke was transported; he was really transported, though it is true some ecstasies stop short of heaven. There are sirens in Campania to see to that.