"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized Beverly, as he remarked her noble form.
After a few moments she appeared again, bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian glass,—rich scarlet in color, veined with flowers of purple, and blue, and gold.
Never had she seemed more beautiful than when standing before him, she presented the golden salver, with one of those smiles, which gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer brightness to her eyes.
He filled the capacious goblet to the brim—for a moment regarded the wine through the delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and purple, and gold,—and then drained it at a draught.
"Ah!"—he smacked his lips,—"that is delicious!"
"Eugene's father imported it some twenty years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to talk with you."
Following the bewitching gesture which she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly rose, and gently wound his arm about her waist.
"Come, let us walk slowly up and down these rooms, now in light and now in darkness, and as we walk we can talk freely to each other."
And they walked, side by side, over the carpet, through that splendid suite of rooms, where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom throbbing near and nearer to his breast, they glided along; now coming near the light in the front room, and now passing into the shadows which invested the other rooms. It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating tête-à-tête.
"I was thinking, this evening," she said, as they passed from the light, "of the history of our love."