t marry you--no! it's best not, for
both of us."

"Well, then," I said, "dance for me! You owe me some amends for an
aching heart." As I said this, the path suddenly broadened into a
little circular glade into which the moonlight poured in a silver
flood. In the centre of the space was a boulder some three or four
feet high, and with a flat slab-like surface of some six feet or so.

"I declare I will," said Sylvia, giving me an impulsive kiss, and
springing on to the stone; "why, here is a ready-made stage."

"And there," I said, "are the nightingale and the nightjar for
orchestra."

"And there is the moon," said she, "for lime-light man."

"Yes," I said; "and here is a handful of glow-worms for the footlights."

Then lifting up her heavy silk skirt about her, and revealing a
paradise of chiffons, Sylvia swayed for a moment with her face full in
the moon, and then slowly glided into the movements of a mystical dance.

It was thus the fountains were dancing to the moon in Arabia; it was
thus the Nixies shook their white limbs on the haunted banks of the
Rhine; it was thus the fairy women flashed their alabaster feet on the
fairy hills of Connemara; it was thus the Houris were dancing for
Mahomet on the palace floors of Paradise.

"It was over such dancing," I said, "that John the Baptist lost his
head."

"Give me a kiss," she said, nestling exhausted in my arms. "I always
want some one to kiss when I have danced with my soul as well as my
body."

"I think we always do," I said, "when we've done anything that seems
wonderful, that gives us the thrill of really doing--"

"And a poor excuse is better than none, isn't it, dear?" said Sylvia,
her face full in the cataract of the moonlight.

As a conclusion for this chapter I will copy out a little song which I
extemporised for Sylvia on our way home to Yellowsands--too artlessly
happy, it will be observed, to rhyme correctly:--

Sylvia's dancing 'neath the moon,
Like a star in water;
Sylvia's dancing to a tune
Fairy folk have taught her.

Glow-worms light her little feet
In her fairy theatre;
Oh, but Sylvia is sweet!
Tell me who is sweeter!

CHAPTER XII

AT THE CAFE DE LA PAIX

As love-making in which we have no share is apt to be either
tantalising or monotonous, I propose to skip the next fortnight and
introduce myself to the reader at a moment when I am once more alone.
It is about six o'clock on a summer afternoon,