CHAPTER LXVII.
A QUIET WEDDING ADVOCATED.
"What did that little note mean, Doris?" asked Earle, with a smile. "You see that I obeyed you implicitly."
Even as he spoke he stood still, lost in admiration of the beautiful picture before him.
Although it was summer there was a bright little fire in the silver grate, the lamps were lighted, but lowered, so that the room was filled with a soft light; the hangings of rich rose silk were drawn, the long mirrors reflected the light, the flowers filled the air with perfume, and in the very heart of the rich crimson light sat the Lady Doris. She was half-buried in a nest of crimson velvet, the firelight had caught the gleam of her jewels, the sheen of the golden hair, the light in her eyes, the white dress: it seemed to shine above all on the white jeweled hands, that lay carelessly clasped on her knee. She had told the countess Earle would call, and that she wished to speak to him, so that she knew her tete-a-tete would be quite undisturbed.
Earle looked at her, thinking that there had never been so fair a picture in all the world; then he repeated his question. She looked up at him, and he was struck by the unusual expression in her eyes; he knelt down before her, and took one white hand in his.
"That cruel note," he said, "depriving me of a pleasure I cannot enjoy too often. What did it mean?"
She did what was very unusual with her; she clasped her arms round his neck.
"Oh, Earle! Earle! it is strange what rest I feel when you are near me. I will tell you what the note meant, but you will laugh at me."
"I do not think so, darling; I have laughed with you, but not at you."