Moon and sky and flowers
and white-gravelled paths were all silver. Stephen thought of Victoria
Ray, and wished she could see this garden. He thought, too, that if she
would only dance here among the lilies in the moonlight, it would be a
vision of exquisite loveliness.
"For a moment white, then gone forever," he caught himself repeating
again.
It was odd how, whenever he saw anything very white and of dazzling
purity, he thought of this dancing girl. He wondered what sort of woman
it was whose image came to Nevill's mind, in the garden of lilies that
smelt so heavenly sweet under the moon. He supposed there must always be
some woman whose image was suggested to every man by all that was
fairest in nature. Margot Lorenzi was the woman whose image he must keep
in his mind, if he wanted to know any faint imitation of happiness in
future. She would like this moonlit garden, and in one way it would suit
her as a background. Yet she did not seem quite in the picture, despite
her beauty. The perfume she loved would not blend with the perfume of
the lilies.
"Aunt Caroline's rather a dear, isn't she?" remarked Nevill, apropos of
nothing.
"She's a jewel," said Stephen.
"Yet she isn't the immediate jewel of my soul. I'm hard hit, Stephen,
and the girl won't have me. She's poorer than any church or other mouse
I ever met, yet she turns up her little French nose at me and my palace,
and all the cheese I should like to see her nibble--my cheese.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129