ike them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender
columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke of
past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the marble
bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly
out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night,
powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers.
Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light
rattle of Therese's pearls could be heard.

Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw
through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine
spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water
was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the 'Hirondelle',
emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble travellers
toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let
the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book
from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in
gold: 'Yseult la Blonde', by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French
verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read
indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry
than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable
friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their
meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her "darling,"
and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly
exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated
her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson,
she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without
even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in
Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French
poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her 'Yseult la Blonde'
to "Darling," with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at
Fiesole. She had written: "Come; you will see the most beautiful things
in the world, and you will embellish them."

And "darling" was saying to herself that she would not go, that she
must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not
indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by
chance at this line:

Love and gentle heart are one.

And she asked herself, with