The garden was filled with floating shadows, which seemed to glide into it from the dark recesses of the near woods, and in a copse some distance away a nightingale was singing to his mate, and filling the silence with melody. The notes fluted sweetly through the still air, mingling with the sigh of the rising wind and the musical splashing of the fountain. This shot up a pillar of silvery water to a great height, and in descending sprinkled the near flower beds with its cold spray. All was inexpressibly beautiful to the eye and soothing to the ear—a scene and an hour for love. It might have been the garden of the Capulets, and those who moved in it—the immortal lovers, as yet uncursed by Fate.
"Only three more days," sighed Lucian as he walked slowly down the path beside Diana, "and then that noisy London again."
"Perhaps it is as well," said Diana, in her practical way. "You would rust here. But is there any need for you to go back so soon?"
"I must—for my own peace of mind."
Diana started and blushed at the meaning of his tone and words.
Then she recovered her serenity and sat down on an old stone seat, near which stood a weather-beaten statue of Venus. Seeing that she kept silent in spite of his broad hint, Lucian—to bring matters to a crisis—resolved to approach the subject in a mythological way through the image of the goddess.
"I am sorry I am not a Greek, Miss Vrain," he said abruptly.
"Why?" asked Diana, secretly astonished by the irrelevancy of the remark.
Lucian plucked a red rose from the bush which grew near the statue and placed it on the pedestal.
"Because I would lay my offering at the feet of the goddess, and touch her knees to demand a boon."