“It is from an acquaintance—I have so many—perhaps it would amuse you to look it over.”
“Thank you, dear Marguerite,” replied Mr. Helmstedt, extending his hand to take it.
She had not expected this—she had offered believing he would decline it, as he certainly would have done had he been less deeply interested in all that concerned her.
“By the way, no! I fear I ought not to let you see it, Philip! It is from an acquaintance who has made me the depository of her confidence—I must not abuse it even to you. You would not ask it, Philip?”
“Assuredly not, except, inasmuch as I wish to share every thought and feeling of yours, my beloved! Do you know that this desire makes me jealous even of your silence and your reveries? And I would enter even into them! Nothing less would content me.”
“Then be contented, Philip, for you are the soul of all my reveries; you fill my heart, as I am sure I do yours.” Then casting the letter into the fire, lightly, as a thing of no account, she went and took up her guitar and began strumming its strings and humming another Portuguese song; then, laying that aside again, she rang the bell and ordered tea.
“We will have it served here, Philip,” she said; “it is so bleak in the dining-room.”
Forrest, who had meanwhile doffed his overcoat and warmed himself, answered the summons and received the necessary directions. He drew out a table, then went and presently returned with Hildreth, bringing the service of delicate white china, thin and transparent as the finest shells, and richly-chased silver, more costly from its rare workmanship than for its precious metal; and then the light bread and tea cakes, chef-d’œuvres of Aunt Hapsy’s culinary skill; and the rich, West India sweetmeats with which Philip, for want of a housekeeper to prepare domestic ones before Marguerite’s arrival, had stocked the closets. When the “hissing urn” was placed upon the table, Forrest and Hildreth retired, leaving their mistress and master alone; for Mr. Helmstedt loved with Marguerite to linger over his elegant and luxurious little tea table, toasting, idling, and conversing at ease with her, free from the presence of others. And seldom had Marguerite been more beautiful, brilliant, witty, and fascinating than upon this evening, when she had but him to please; and his occasional ringing laughter testified her happy power to move to healthful mirth even that grave, saturnine nature.
An hour of trifling with the delicate viands on the table, amid jest and low-toned silvery laughter, and then the bell was rung and the service removed.
“And now—the spirit comes, and I will give you a song—an improvisation! Quick, give me the guitar—for I must seize the fancy as it flies—for it is fading even now like a vanishing sail on the horizon.”