Love, wearied out by love, hath need of rest.
And, when all love is ended, Death is best.
The song ceased; but, though the singer’s voice no longer charmed the silence, his fingers still wandered over the keys of the piano, devising intricate passages of melody as delicate and devious as the warbling of nightingales. El-Râmi, unconsciously to himself, heaved a deep sigh, and Féraz, hearing it, looked round.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
“No. I love to hear you; but, like many youthful poets, you sing of what you scarcely understand—love, for instance; you know nothing of love.”
“I imagine I do,” replied Féraz meditatively. “I can picture my ideal woman; she is——”
“Fair, of course!” said El-Râmi, with an indulgent smile.
“Yes, fair; her hair must be golden, but not uniformly so—full of lights and shadows, suggestive of some halo woven round her brows by the sunlight, or the caressing touch of an angel. She must have deep, sweet eyes in which no actual colour is predominant; for a pronounced blue or black does away with warmth of expression. She must not be tall, for one cannot caress tall women without a sense of the ludicrous spoiling sentiment——”
“Have you tried it?” asked El-Râmi, laughing.
Féraz laughed too.