The trees were bare of leaves, but here and there a fir stood up green and sombre, while the undergrowth of brambles and grass and ferns and various weeds had not yet lost their autumnal tints so that the park did not as yet look entirely wintry. The day was warm too for late November, and pale sunshine irradiated the grey depths of the sky, so that the birds had plucked up heart to sing, perhaps in the hope of averting coming snows. At top-speed Marie flew down a side path which twisted and straightened at intervals for a considerable distance until it ended In a kind of sunken dell in the centre of which was a circle of cemented stones rising slightly above the fading herbage. Over this was a wooden canopy of ancient appearance with a tiled red roof weather-worn and mellow, and beneath, a deep hole which seemed to penetrate into the bowels of the earth. This was St. Peter’s Dell and St. Peter’s Well since the monastery had been dedicated to the chief of the Apostles. Marie loved the spot, and haunted it in summer for the sake of its coolness. Now she came because she knew that her philanderings with the forbidden lover would not be seen by anyone.
“And Uncle Ran is asleep,” she explained as she perched herself on the ragged rim of stones. “He always sleeps for an hour in the afternoon, because he says that it keeps him alive.”
“I wish it didn’t,” growled Alan, placing himself beside the girl, and putting an arm round her, probably to prevent her from falling into the depths. “I don’t like your Uncle Ran, dear.”
“Since he won’t let you make love to me, I can quite understand that,” said Marie rather pertly; “but he’s all the relative I have so I must make the best of him, Alan. But you haven’t told me how I am looking.”
“Why, I’ve used at least a dozen adjectives. But I shall examine you carefully, darling, and give you my honest opinion.”
Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her face upward, and looked into the happy blue eyes. Marie was indeed a very pretty girl, although not perhaps so superlatively lovely as Alan imagined. Her face would never have launched a thousand ships, or set fire to Troy Town. But her complexion was transparent and as delicately tinted as a rose, with the dewy look, so to speak, of that flower at dawn. Her hair was golden and waved over her white forehead in rebellious little curls. Then she had sapphire eyes and a straight little Greek nose, and two fresh red lips, which seemed to invite the kiss Alan now bestowed. As her figure was wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak of great antiquity, it could not be seen at the moment, but Alan, who was well acquainted with its suave contours, knew that it was the most perfect figure in the three kingdoms, as her hands and feet were the smallest and most well-shaped. But what really drew his heart to Marie was her sweet expression and candid looks. Some women—few, of course—might have possessed Marie’s items of beauty in the shape of form and coloring, but no one, and Alan said this aloud with great decision, ever owned such heavenly smiles or could give such tender glances. Marie sighed and approved of the praise and nestled her head against his rough frieze overcoat.
“You always tell the truth, darling,” she said, after he had assured her that she was something higher than an angel.
“Always!” Alan kissed her again for the tenth time. “And now I want you to tell me the truth, Marie.”
She looked up somewhat puzzled. “About what?”
“About the peacock of jewels, which———”