"I have never seen Lady Marion. What is she like?"
He noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of blondes as Lady Chandos, or as "your wife," but always as Lady Marion.
This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled him with the question:
"What is Lady Marion like?"
"Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers."
"I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember seeing my lady. I—I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful.
"Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?"
A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away.
"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she not?"
"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words."