“Then,” replied he, with an almost stern severity, “I should no longer love.”
“Ah! ah! monsieur,” said a pretty little Frenchwoman, “I differ, quite. As for me, I am jealous; as a wolf—a tiger.”
A general laugh followed this innocent and truly French sally, from all but D’Arcy, who bowing profoundly, and with an air of inimitable, mock humility, said:
“Then, madame, I am most unhappy, for I can never make love to you.”
“This is growing too serious,” I said; “let me introduce to you, Mr. D’Arcy, as a poet, and my friend, Miss Mildmay, as a musician second only to Rossini. Ella will sing you a song of their joint composition. It is really charming.”
I here transcribe the words, which, with the music, met with great success:
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE.
My spirit dwelleth in myrtle bowers,
Where the breezes wax faint with the perfume of flowers,
And the queen rose blushes a brighter hue,