The ring-dove was gone, a thing of mystery lay there instead--unresisting,
motionless, white. Now and then Paul looked at her half in fear. Was she
real? Was it some dream, and would he wake in his room at Verdayne Place
among the sporting prints and solid Chippendale furniture to hear Tompson
saying, "Eight o'clock, sir, and a fine day"?
Oh, no, no, she was real! He raised himself, and bent down to touch her
tenderly with his forefinger. Yes, all this fascination was indeed his,
living and breathing and warm, and he was her lover and lord. Ah!
The same coloured orchid-mauve silk curtains as at Lucerne were drawn over
the open windows, so the sun in high heaven seemed only as dawn in the
room, filtering though the _jalousies_ outside. But what was time? Time
counts as one lives, and Paul was living now.
It was twelve o'clock before they were ready for their dainty breakfast,
laid out under the balcony awning.
And the lady talked tenderly and occupied herself with the fancies of her
lord, as a new bride should.
But all the time the mystery stayed in her eyes. And the thought came to
Paul that were he to live with her for a hundred years, he would never be
sure of their real meaning.
"What shall we do with our day, my Paul?" she said presently.
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