The pretty fountain in the midst rippled musically, and the lamps gleamed like pale stars among masses of gorgeous color.
Beatrice was almost bewildered by the profusion of beautiful plants. Tier upon tier of superb flowers rose until the eye was dazzled by the varied hues and brightness—delicate white heaths of rare perfection, flaming azaleas, fuchsias that looked like showers of purple-red wine. The plant that charmed Beatrice most was one from far-off Indian climes—delicate, perfumed blossoms, hanging like golden bells from thick, sheltering green leaves. Miss Earle stood before it, silent in sheer admiration.
"You like that flower?" said Lord Airlie.
"It is one of the prettiest I ever saw," she replied.
In a moment he gathered the fairest sprays from the precious tree. She cried out in dismay at the destruction.
"Nay," said Lord Airlie, "if every flower here could be compressed into one blossom, it would hardly be a fitting offering to you."
She smiled at the very French compliment, and he continued—"I shall always have a great affection for that tree."
"Why?" she asked, unconsciously.
"Because it has pleased you," he replied.
They stood by the pretty plant, Beatrice touching the golden bells softly with her fingers. Something of the magic of the scene touched her. She did not know why the fountain rippled so musically, why the flowers seemed doubly fair as her young lover talked to her. She had been loved. She had heard much of love, but she herself had never known what it really meant. She did not know why, after a time, her proud, bright eyes drooped, and had never met Lord Airlie's gaze, why her face flushed and grew pale, why his words woke a new, strange, beautiful music in her heart—music that never died until—