Now, it was soon evident that this proceeded from a little panelled parlour or boudoir, at the open door of which he paused a-tiptoe, drinking in the vision of a pale morning Cecilia seated at a pianoforte communing with her soul in the softest of harmonies and an angelic gown.
“Thank you!” said he presently, in a pause. “I have risen with the lark.”
St. Cecilia started and turned about with a very pretty confusion.
“Mr. Tuke!” she cried; and presented him with a blush through her ringlets like a moss-rose.
“Ah! madam,” said he, “I dropped upon you like a spider in your bower. Your voice thrilled my web and I must needs fall.”
“But I thought——”
“You thought me gone. Alas! if I have imperilled my welcome by craving your brother’s hospitality till the morning. But, so it seemed to me, your beauty would owe me a recompense for a sleepless night; and I dared to stay to claim it.”
“Oh, sir! You are pleased to make a sport of me. But, indeed, you are very welcome; though, I protest, nothing would have induced me to sing, had I known you in the house.”
“And so would you have denied one soul a full measure of happiness.”
“Poor soul.”