He could not say more; and his words were uttered with heartfelt sincerity. Patricia, duly comforted, dried her eyes, and a smile like a burst of sunshine after rain illumined her face. Feeling that he could not settle down to work again, her husband fetched her hat and gloves, and together they sauntered through the white streets and across the market square. Their destination, as usual, proved to be the new house, the inevitable magnet which drew him towards itself whenever he had a little time to spare. The builders and decorators were still hard at work, and the sound of the hammers as they fell rhythmically upon the stone greeted them as they approached. A sloping avenue of palm-trees led up to the principal entrance, and the house, situated on a slight eminence, commanded a fine view. From the observatory, which was nearly completed, the mountain ranges of Galilee and Phœnicia, stretching away to Lebanon and Hermon in the distance, could be seen, as well as the Bay of Acre and Mediterranean Sea. The position was the best that could possibly have been obtained; for if there were but a breath of air stirring it would be obliged to find its way here. Patricia already felt the difference as she seated herself on the one chair of which the roof boasted, and drew a deep breath of relief. Montella left her for a few minutes while he went to give a few directions in various languages to the cosmopolitan band of workmen; but in a very few minutes he was back again.
“Your boudoir is nearly finished, dear,” he said, with jubilance in his tone. “Would you like to come down and see it? You might make some further suggestions before it is too late.”
She rose with alacrity, and they descended the handsome staircase arm-in-arm. All the rooms were situated on the ground floor, most of them abutting on the atrium, in the centre of which was to be erected a fountain in a colossal marble basin. The boudoir adjoined the night-nursery, and was octagonal in shape. It was decorated in white and gold, but the hangings were of old rose, Patricia’s favourite hue. The furniture had just arrived, and some of the pictures already adorned the walls. One, a small oil-painting of the Thames near Chertsey, had hung in her old boudoir in Grosvenor Square, and called up a flood of old and half-forgotten memories. She sank on to the silken covered settee, whilst her husband went on a tour of inspection, and gave herself up to a dreamy recollection of the past. How dull and prosy it had been in her father’s house, and how depressing the magnificence of the silent rooms. It seemed almost impossible to believe that she had existed for so long with only the companionship of the phlegmatic Mrs. Lowther, except for the occasional visits of the Countess of Chesterwood to break the dreary monotony. What a change the advent of Lionel had been! He had transformed her life, had given a zest and interest of which she had never dreamed, had flooded her heart with the sunshine of his love. How noble he was, and brave, and good! She glanced up at his stalwart figure with shining eyes. She at least had no cause to long for the past.
“Well, what do you think of it, Patricia?” he said playfully, returning to her side. “Does it meet with your little ladyship’s approval? Are you satisfied?”
“More than satisfied!” she exclaimed, with ardour. “The house will be a perfect paradise. But, do you know, Lal, it all seems unreal.”
“Unreal?” he repeated, in perplexity. “How? It is substantial enough—built of stone throughout.”
“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean that. I cannot realise, somehow, that this is to be our own house. It is more like a fairy palace than Grosvenor Square.”
Lionel laughed, well pleased.
“If this is a fairy palace, you are the fairy queen,” he replied gallantly. “You shall hold your court in the atrium, and all Haifa will come and do you homage. Ah, you do not know what pleasant things are in store for you when we have established ourselves here!”
Patricia answered him with a smile, but a sigh soon took its place. This peculiar air of unreality always affected her when she went over this new house. She could not imagine herself domestically settled in the place, and although the arrival of the furniture introduced a more home-like appearance, this feeling still remained. It was almost like a premonition—a presentiment that although the house was being built especially for her, although everything in it had been chosen in accordance with her own taste, all the care and thought had been in vain, for the simple reason that fate ordained that she should never live in it. It was so unaccountable and inexplicable that she would not mar her husband’s satisfaction in the place by worrying him with this foolish fancy. But the fancy, foolish or not, remained; and the oftener they visited the house the more certain she became that the magnificent edifice would never be her home.