“Have you any scene like this in England?”
Patriotic as he was, Wilfrid was fain to confess that his own land could never at any time show a scene so fairy-like as that presented by St. Petersburg on a midsummer night.
It was now on the stroke of twelve, and though the glow of the setting sun had scarcely faded from the western sky, yet the eastern horizon was already becoming shot with golden streaks. This intermingling of dusk and dawn illumined by the glory of a full moon, produced a light soft and clear, poetic and dreamlike.
The river flowed, silent and majestic, breaking here and there into silver ripples. Its long line of quays and palaces, fading away in dim perspective, seemed like the fabrics of a vision too lovely to be real.
Enchanting as was the scene, it was made still more so to Wilfrid by the presence of the young Duchess, attractive both by her beauty and by the romantic air of mystery surrounding her.
It filled him with pleasure to learn that while he had been seeking her, she had been seeking him.
“I saw you leave the ballroom,” she observed, “and as soon as I could conveniently do so, I stole away. Not finding you in——”
She paused. They were no longer alone. Merely a gallant and his inamorata in close conversation, and apparently so enwrapped in each other, as to be oblivious of everybody else. Nevertheless, the Duchess turned her face riverward again; and, evidently fearing lest her voice, if overheard, should lead to her recognition, she refrained from speaking till the two had fairly passed by.
“I fear a spy in every one I see to-night,” she murmured.