From another corner came the sound of slow, deep breathing. Outside the circle of candlelight, Madame had fallen asleep in her chair. The full June moon had shadowed the net curtain upon the polished floor and laid upon it, in silhouette, an arabesque of oak leaves. It touched Madame's silvered hair to almost unearthly beauty as she leaned back with her eyes closed, and brought a memory of violets and sun from the gold-tasselled amethyst that hung on her breast. The small slender hands lay quietly, one on either arm of her chair. A white crêpe shawl, heavy with Chinese embroidery, lay over her shoulders,—a gift from Edith. A Summer wind, like a playful child, stole into the room, lifted the deep silk fringe of the shawl, made merry with it for a moment, then tinkled the prisms on the chandelier and ran away again.
The fairy-like sound of it, as though it were a far, sweet bell, chimed in with Edith's dreamy chords and brought her to herself with a start. She turned quickly, saw that Madame was asleep, and stopped playing.
"Go on," said Alden, in a low tone. "Please do."
"I mustn't," she whispered, with her finger on her lips. "Your mother is asleep and I don't want to disturb her."
"Evidently you haven't," he laughed.
"Hush!" Edith's full, deep contralto took on an affected sternness. "You mustn't talk."
Edith's Room
"But I've got to," he returned. "Shall we go outdoors?"
"Yes, if you like."
"Don't you want a wrap of some sort?"