"Do you like being read to when you are at work?" I asked him.
"Sometimes,—at certain kinds of work, but not by any means always," he answered. "Will you shut your eyes for one minute," he went on, "and, whatever I do, not open them till I tell you?"
"You mustn't hurt me, then, or I may open them without being able to help it, you know," I said, closing my eyes tight.
"Hurt you!" he repeated, with a tone I would not put on paper if I could, and the same moment I found myself in his arms, carried like a baby, for Percivale is one of the strongest of men.
It was only for a few yards, however. He laid me down somewhere, and told me to open my eyes.
I could scarcely believe them when I did. I was lying on a couch in a room,—small, indeed, but beyond exception the loveliest I had ever seen. At first I was only aware of an exquisite harmony of color, and could not have told of what it was composed. The place was lighted by a soft lamp that hung in the middle; and when my eyes went up to see where it was fastened, I found the ceiling marvellous in deep blue, with a suspicion of green, just like some of the shades of a peacock's feathers, with a multitude of gold and red stars upon it. What the walls were I could not for some time tell, they were so covered with pictures and sketches; against one was a lovely little set of book-shelves filled with books, and on a little carved table stood a vase of white hot-house flowers, with one red camellia. One picture had a curtain of green silk before it, and by its side hung the wounded knight whom his friends were carrying home to die.
"O my Percivale!" I cried, and could say no more.
"Do you like it?" he asked quietly, but with shining eyes.
"Like it?" I repeated. "Shall I like Paradise when I get there? But what a lot of money it must have cost you!"
"Not much," he answered; "not more than thirty pounds or so. Every spot of paint there is from my own brush."