I was very unhappy. I was not only madly in love with Thusis but also mad enough to spank her. And I sat down in the arbor once more a prey to mixed emotions.
The two silent little birds had gone to bed. Soft mauve shadows lay across the scrubby foreland; snow peaks assumed the hue of pink pearls; a wavering light played through the valley so that the world seemed to quiver in primrose tints.
Then, through the pale yellow glory, a girl came drifting as though part of the delicate beauty of it all,—her frail, primrose evening gown and scarf scarcely outlined—scarcely detached from the golden clarity about her. It was as though she were lost in the monotone of living light the only accent the dusky symmetry of her head.
I had not realized that the Countess Manntrapp was so pretty.
I was not sure that she had discovered me at all until she turned her head en passant and sent me one of those vague smiles calculated to stir the dead bones of saints.
"I suppose," she said, "you only look lonely, but really you are not."
I was lonely and sore at heart. Possibly she read in my forced smile something of my state of mind, for she paused leisurely by the arbor and glanced about her at the grape leaves.
"Evidently," she said, "this spot is sacred to Bacchus. But I was not looking for gods or half-gods.... Do you prefer your own company, Mr. O'Ryan?"
"No, I don't," said I. So she entered the arbor and seated herself. There was only that one seat. With strictest economy it could accommodate two; but I had not thought of attempting it until she carelessly suggested it.
"How heavenly still it is," she murmured, an absent expression in her dark eyes. "Are you fond of stillness and solitude?"