It ceased then, and Coralie came over to the bay-window. She sat down upon the Turkish curtains, and looked with longing eyes at the light on the trees and flowers. There was a softened expression on her face, a flush as of awakened emotion, a new and brighter light in those dark, dangerous eyes. The white fingers trembled, the white bosom heaved as though she had felt deeply the words she had been singing.
Then it was said she would rather be mistress of Crown Anstey than Queen of Great Britain.
I laughed, not knowing what to say.
"Crown Anstey ought to thank you very much," I said. "You pay it a great compliment."
"My heart is here," she continued, those dreamy eyes still fixed upon mine. "I think if any one were to say to me, 'You must leave Crown Anstey,' I should die."
All the music on earth seemed embodied in those few words.
"I should die," she repeated, "just as a flower dies when it is torn from the soil it has taken deep root."
"Why do you speak of such things?" I asked. "No one thinks of your going; this is your home."
"In my happiest hours the fear lies heaviest upon me," she replied. "No one has ever spoken of my going, that is true; but I have common sense, and common sense tells me if certain events happen I must go."
"What events do you mean?" I asked, all unconsciously.