Tristram stood like a stone. He could not trust himself to go nearer. Moreover, the dark room, with its island of light and her at the heart of it, was threatening to turn round. Seconds passed; then he said more steadily, "I should very much like a memento of you—something you have worn. Is there anything you could spare?"
He saw her drop her hands to her throat and unfasten something—something which, still half turned away, she held out to him without a word. He went forward to take it, and, dropping on one knee, kissed the hand that gave it to him, the hand lost to him for ever.
Then he found himself outside the room, and in his palm, warm from her throat, the little gold fibula, saucer-shaped and delicately worked, which she habitually wore. A thousand years ago it had clasped the cloak over the breast of a woman as beloved, perhaps, as she, but the heart that had once beat under it was not now more dust and ashes than his own.
BOOK II
BOOK II
GARISH DAY
CHAPTER I
(1)
A great deal of wind made its entry with Armand and Horatia, and two dry leaves, scurrying gleefully over the polished floor, hurled themselves into oblivion under a chest. Roland the deerhound paced, very dignified, across the hall, and let himself down in front of the fire with a sigh. But his master and mistress lingered at the door, and when the tails of old Jean's livery had disappeared, Armand took Horatia into his arms and kissed her three times without a word. Then, hand in hand, like lovers and like children, they also crossed the hall to the fire.
"How I love coming in!" whispered Horatia. "Everyday it is different. Yesterday it was not so dark, but the portraits looked rather forbidding. To-day they are more friendly. Are they getting more used to me, do you think?" Her eyes ran along the row of observers.