"Dinner at once, Fritz," said Percivale to his servant, as he advanced to meet his guests.
"Are we late?" cried Lady Mabel, as she swept her silken skirts up the long room, and greeted her host with extended hand. "It must be Elsa's fault, then—she was so long dressing."
"Oh, Lady Mabel!" cried Elsa, in lovely confusion, as she came forward in her turn.
She was in black to-night—some delicate, clinging, semi-transparent material, arranged in wonderful folds, with gleams of brightness here and there. It caused her neck and arms to seem a miracle of fairness; the arrangement of her golden hair was perfect, a diamond arrow being stuck through its masses.
To the chivalrous poetic mind of her lover, she was a dream of beauty—a thing hardly mortal—so transfused with soul and spirit, that no thought of the mundane or the commonplace could intrude into his thoughts of her.
Disillusioned! Could any man ever be disillusioned who had the depths of those lake-like eyes to gaze into?
She gave him her little hand—bien gantée—and lifted those eyes to his. Lady Mabel had passed on to speak to her brother.
"I have no flowers," said Elsa, softly "you told me not to wear any."
"I wished you to wear mine, will you?" said Percivale.