"Ah, I know why! You are frightened lest Aronach should pounce upon you,—is it not?"
I laughed. "A little, sir."
"Well, in that case I will come in. It does look inviting,—pretty room!"
We stopped at the conservatory door. It was rather large, and very long; a table down the centre was dressed with flowers, and overflowing dishes decked the board. There were no seats, but a narrow walk ran round, and over this the foreign plants were grouped richly, and with excelling taste. The roof was not curtained with vine-leaves, as in England, but it was covered with the immense leaves and ivory-yellow blossoms of the magnolia grandiflora, which made the small arched space appear expanded to immensity by the largeness of its type, and gave to all the exotics an air of home.
At the end of the vista, some thirty feet in length, there were several persons all turned from us; and as we crept along, one by one, until we reached that end, the odors of jasmine and tuberose were heavy upon every breath. I felt as if I must faint until we attained that point where a cool air entered; refreshing, though itself just out of the hottest sunshine I had almost ever felt. This breeze came through arched doors on either hand half open and met in two embracing currents where the picture hung. All were looking at the picture, and I instantly refrained from criticism. It was hung by invisible cords to the framework of the conservatory, and thence depended. About it and around it clustered the deep purple bells and exquisite tendrils and leaves of the maurandia, while the scarlet passion-flower met it above and mingled its mystic splendors. Other strange glories, but for me nameless, pressing underneath, shed their glowing smiles from fretted urns or vases; but around the frame, and so close to the picture as to hide its other frame entirely, lay the cool white roses, in that dazzling noon so seeming, and amidst those burning colors. The picture itself was divine as painting can render its earthly ideal, so strictly significant of the set rules of beauty. All know the "Saint Cecilia" of Raphael d'Urbino; this was one of the oldest copies, and was the greatest treasure of the committee, having been purchased for an extravagant sum by the president from the funds of the foundation,—a proceeding I did not clearly comprehend, but was too ignorant to tamper with. It was the young lady who enlightened me as I stood by her side. Of those who stood there I concluded the most part had already refreshed themselves; they held plates or glasses, and in a few moments first one and then another recognized our companion, and that with a reverential impressiveness it charmed me to behold. It may have been the result of his exquisitely bright and simple manner, for he had wholly put aside the awful serene reserve that had controlled the crowd in public. Milans-André happened to be there; I beheld him now, and also saw that, taking hold upon that arm I should not have presumed to touch, he drew on our guide as if away from us. But this one stayed, and resting his hand upon the table, inquired with politeness for a court,—
"Where is your wife? Is she here to-day? I want to show her to a young gentleman."
Milans-André looked down upon him, for he was quite a head taller, though not tall himself. "She is here, but not in here. I left her with the Baroness Silberung. Come and see her in-doors. She will be highly flattered."
"No, I am not coming; I have two children to take charge of. Where is Professor Aronach?"
"In the committee-room, and in a great rage,—with you, too, it appears, Chevalier."
"With me, is it? I am so glad!"