"How clear and still," she murmured. "Its surface is like a mirror."
"Then do not gaze too long upon it, lest you meet the fate of Narcissus."
"Narcissus?" she repeated, looking up at him with inquiring eyes.
"He died from the reflection of his own loveliness."
Idris regretted his words almost in the very moment of their utterance, for he could tell by the sudden clouding of her face that she was averse to the language of gallantry. Clearly she was not a woman to be won by empty compliment, and he resolved to steer clear of such a quicksand. He was glad to observe that when she had resumed her seat the pleasant smile was again on her lip.
Attentive to every variation in her countenance he began to discern two moods in Lorelie Rivière: the one vivacious and sprightly, and this seemed to be her original disposition: the other, pensive and sad, the result, so he judged, of some secret sorrow.
He longed to know more of this fair lady, slighted by Beatrice; the lady who had once lived at Nantes in the very house that fronted the scene of the murder of Duchesne, that murder for which his father had been condemned: the lady who was erecting in St. Oswald's Churchyard a marble cross inscribed with an epitaph that seemed almost applicable to his father's case: the lady whose playing upon the organ had wrought so weird an effect upon his mind.
All these things contributed to invest Lorelie Rivière with a charming air of mystery, but Idris recognized that the time was not yet ripe to press for confidences.
Dragging a few logs forward he disposed them so as to form a seat for himself near the entrance of the cavern, remarking as he did so:—