A night so absolutely soft and calm, was delicious after the glare and noise within.
“With whom,” he asked, “sweetheart, were you last dancing?”
“Only the brother of one of the Queen’s Maids, dear,” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi replied. “After dinner, though,” she tittered, “when he gets Arabian-Nighty, it’s apt to annoy one a scrap!”
“Arabian-Nighty?”
“Oh, never mind!”
“But (pardon me dear) I do.”
“Don’t be tiresome, Yousef! The night is too fine,” she murmured glancing absently away towards the hardly moving trees, from whose branches a thousand drooping necklets of silver lamps palely burned.
Were those the “bladders” then?
Strolling on down hoops of white wisteria in the moon they came to the pillared circle of a rustic-temple, commanding a prospect on the town.
“There,” she murmured smiling elfishly, and designating something, far below them, through the moonmist, with her fan: “is the column of Justice and,” she laughed a little, “of Liberty!”