“Come hither, ye winds, come hither!” she softly called.
“Oh, Olga! Do we really want it?” the Countess in agitation asked, discarding her hat and veil with a long, sighing breath.
“I don’t know, dear; no; not, not much.”
“Nor I,—at all.”
“Let us be patient then.”
“It’s all so beautiful it makes one want to cry.”
“Yes; it makes one want to cry,” Mademoiselle Blumenghast murmured, with a laugh that in brilliance vied with the October sun.
“Olga!”
“So,” as the Calypso lurched: “lend me your hanky, dearest.”
“Olga—? —? Thou fragile, and exquisite thing!”