A luxurious drawing-room, furnished with all the taste and elegance that money can command; flowers here, there and everywhere—flowers in the deep recesses of lace-veiled windows, flowers on the multitude of tables that stood in every corner, flowers—and these the sweetest of them all—in the lap of a young fair-haired girl who filled a corner of one of the sofas.
She was paying no great attention to the flowers, only bathing one of her hands in them from time to time, as though to refresh herself with their cool fragrance. The other hand, her eyes and her whole soul appeared to be given to the book she held, an elegant little volume bound in fawn-colored calfskin.
She was so deeply engrossed that she did not hear the door open, and her cousin had time to cross the long room, sit down by her side and take possession of the hand that was trifling with the flowers before she was aware of his presence.
Then she looked up, blushed charmingly and closed her book: "Arthur dear, how delightful! I began to think you were never coming near us again, and I wanted particularly to speak to you about something that has been in my head ever since our visit to the Academy."
"Four days!" answered Arthur, languidly, throwing himself back on the sofa—"an enormous time, as young ladies would say, for one subject to engross them, especially in this age of progress."
"I suppose it would be absurd to imagine that you even remember, Master Arthur," replied Adèle, quite equal to the occasion—"boys, as mamma always says, are so volatile."
"Boys!" Arthur shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "You are very polite to-day, Adèle."
There was a shade of annoyance in his voice, which made Adèle look up at him, for she was a kind little lady who never carried her jokes too far. The result of the look was a rapid movement from her side of the sofa to Arthur's, and an earnest inquiry: "Arthur dear, something is wrong with you, you must surely be ill."
For Arthur's face was pale, and there was a wan, anxious contraction on his broad white brow.