"Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens—dryads and oreads and naiads," said the classic Jacques; "and you are like them."
"Like a dryad?"
"They were very beautiful."
Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the screen. Jacques sighed.
"Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate."
And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques was silent.
"Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very pretty."
"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor Corydon.
Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down and played the prelude.
Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.