At the corner of a street she noticed an old beggar huddled against a house; she stopped under the lamp and took out her purse, emptying all its little silver into the astonished beggar’s palm; she felt that she had come into great riches; she was so happy, the joy within was inexhaustible; she felt she could have played the prodigal with it and still have the lightest heart in the world.
The old man called a garrulous blessing after her and she turned lightly with a dazzling smile, then hurried on down the street.
There was no one abroad; the stillness of the snow lay over everything; every tenth house alone showed a lamp and between the way was in perfect darkness; yet Delia found in this dreariness only a strangeness that heightened the ecstasy of her divine elation. As she turned into the courtyard of “The Sleeping Queen” she saw Jerome Caryl dismounting by the light of the ostler’s lanthorn.
“Mr. Caryl!” she cried with an impulsive desire to speak to some one.
He turned. “Why, you are out late,” he said abstractedly; he looked pale and anxious had Delia had eyes for that, but she followed him into the house and into the front parlor in a smiling silence. A serving man set a lamp upon the table and Jerome Caryl flung him his hat and whip; then glanced at Delia.
“Why, what has happened?” he asked, struck through his absorption with her transfigured face. She stood behind the lamp, her hands resting on the edge of the table and her head a little thrown back; her hazel curls lay over the open collar of her red coat and her eyes shone softly brilliant as misted fires.
“Ah, Jerome,” she said, trembling passionately. “Ah, I feel above humanity to-night!”
He looked at her, his melancholy eyes a little wide with wonder.
“Tell me—” he asked.
Blushing, breathing fast, she drew back with low laughter. “Ah—not yet—I must tell Perseus first.”