Then of his inevitable
weariness. And at last of the Court, and the meeting again with
Hildegarde, and of all the sorrow that followed, until the end, when
the fountains burst their stoppings and rushed upwards, wreathing
themselves into the figure of Undine, to take her Love to death with
her kiss.
"Oh! he was wise!" Paul said. "He chose to die with her kiss. He knew
at last then--what he had thrown away."
"That one learns often, Paul, when it has grown--too late! Come, let
us live in the sunshine. Live while we may."
And the lady rose, and giving him her hand, she almost ran into the
bright light of day, where even no tender shadows fell.
CHAPTER V
Their return journey was one of quiet. The lady talked little, she
leant back and looked away across the blue lake, often apparently
unconscious of his presence. This troubled Paul. Had he wearied her?
What should he do? He was growing aware of the fact that she was not a
bit like his mother, or Isabella, or any of the other women whom he
knew--people whose moods he had never even speculated about--if they
had any--which he doubted.
Why wouldn't she speak? Had she forgotten him? He felt chilled and
saddened.
At last, as they neared a small bay where another tempting little
chalet-hotel mirrored itself in the clear water, he spoke.
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