"I do not like it," said Lady Ilfield, who was one of the old school, and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "I have heard already more of Lord Chandos than has pleased me, and I like his wife."
This simple conversation was the beginning of the end—the beginning of one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone.
"I am sorry that he saw me," said Lord Chandos, as the captain waved his final adieu; "but he did not see your face, Leone, did he?"
"No," she replied, "I think not."
"It does not matter about me," he said, "but I should not like to have any one recognize you."
He forgot the incident soon after. When the boat was again on the bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else except that they were together.
"Lance," said Leone, "row close to those water-lilies. I should like to gather one."
Obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies for her. It was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue, shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing the drops of spray over the green leaves.
It was the prettiest picture ever seen. Lord Chandos filled the boat with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of Leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. Then, while the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked her if she would sing for him.
"One song, Leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. It will be clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me."