"See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet."
"That does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest."
He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word.
But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane Charteris, as they pass from the room:
"There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin."
And Vane answers, readily enough:
"She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white, stately lily."
"The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies. "Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love."
They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies, open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold.
And up the graveled path came a trio of young men who had left the house but a little while ago, laughing and jesting in the light-heartedness of youth. They come silently now, with blanched and solemn faces, and heavily-beating hearts.