e sole inhabitants of some
brilliant, inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. They
were to remain there a month--one month at least--and after that would
trials, or labour, or sorrow deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternal
recollection of such days? A table had been set for them in one of the
small pavilions leading on to a balcony. The scent of flowers, mingling
with the sunlight, came in through the open windows, bringing the
garden's freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry.
Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and apologised for
her "frightful appearance." She had thrown her veil and gloves on the
sofa, and the mere sight of them there gave a homeliness to that
forsaken room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, and
gilded doors, had something of the dead gaiety of an empty theatre.
Brigit made the tea, following the English custom taught her by Pensee.
Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How absurd not to know whether
one's husband took cream! The two had seen so little of each other in
domestic surroundings that this little commonplace intimacy had an
intoxicating charm.

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly. "Do you know that you are all I
love in the world, and I am yours for ever and ever?"

"Yes, I know."

"And how much do you love me?"

"I shall never be able to say how much."

She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, then asked him,
with some confusion, if he liked grapes better than pears.

"You are so beautiful," he replied.

"Not to-day," she answered; "to-day I am quite dull. But you are
handsome. I saw them looking at you on the boat. And I was proud--oh, so
proud to think that you were mine."

When they had finished their meal, she opened the piano and struck out
some chords, which echoed with a kind of wail through the long corridors
outside. The instrument was out of tune, and the strings seemed
muffled.

"Something is inside," she said.

They looked and discovered a few sheets of music which had slipped down
upon the wires. The sheets were dusty, stained with age, blurred by
damp, but one bore the name "Henriette" written in the corner in a
large, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they found it was an
arrangement in manuscript of Poe's ballad, "Annabel Lee."

_"It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annab