She nodded assent, and he walked on by her side out of the shadow of the cypresses into the sunlight of the narrow by-path.
“Mrs. de Vere sent me out into the air to get up a fine complexion for the ball,” she said, smiling up into his grave, dark face, with a secret wonder over the shadow that lay in his eyes.
But he smiled back at her even though it cost him an effort, and replied:
“My mother was cruel to the young men who will be at the ball to try to add another charm to your perfection. Does she think
“‘To gild refined gold?
To paint the lily?’”
There came to her again the suggestive lines:
“Too warm for a friend and too cold for a lover;”
and she sighed even while she said, demurely:
“Thank you.”