"
"I dare say she won't," said Maurice.
Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected
from no one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a
thoughtful cast to his countenance, and he puffed away,
blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the close
proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty housewife, could she
have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself in the folds
above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and
perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red
Chateau, nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.
Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long
reaches of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the
western line of hills. The mists began to rise, changing from
opal to sapphire. The fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy
songs went throbbing through the room; rollicking gavots,
Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes. As the music grew
sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.
Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness
returned and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in
all; and there were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains,
men moving in the blur of smoke, long watches in the night.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214