Standing by his table, much as she had stood there on the night of his second sight of her, was the Lady of the Rose.
Cartaret thought that his eyes were playing him tricks. He rubbed his eyes.
“It is I,” she said.
He thought that again he could detect the perfume of the Azure Rose. He again thought that he could see white mountain-tops in the sun. He could have sworn that, in the street, a hurdy-gurdy was playing:
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;
Her throat is like the swan——”
“I came in,” she was saying, “to see how you were. I should have sent Chitta, but she was so long coming back from an errand.”
“Thank you,” he said—he was not yet certain of himself—“I’m quite well. But I’m very glad you called.”
“Yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend”—her forehead puckered—“told me that you had been ill.”
“My friend?” He spoke as if he had none in the world, though now he knew better.
“Yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray hair and glasses. As I came in half an hour ago, I met him on the stairs.”