The minuet was over at last, and the ballroom insufferably hot. At least so Gabrielle declared, as her partner led her down the wide staircase and out through the open window on to the lawns.
A lake, surrounded by choice shrubs, and a seat under shelter of the rockery near, proved an ideal halting-place, whilst moonlight was good for dreams and fairy visions. Michael half lay on the grass at her feet.
"My primroses are faded," she said suddenly, coming back from dreamland to look into the dark face upturned to meet her gaze. "You did not come again to help me gather them."
"And now it is too late?"
The passion vibrating through the whisper stirred her pulses as the moonlight had failed to do.
"Spring is over."
"And summer is here."
"My roses have thorns. I do not gather many alone. See how one tore my finger but yesterday."
He took the little hand in his, and, growing bolder, or more desperate, held the scarred finger to his lips.
She drew it away, laughing.