storms of her native desert were her satellites. What was
Coralie, with her pink silk, her golden hair and slender limbs,
beside this magnificent, full-figured Cleopatra? In a twinkling
we were scouring the desert--she and I and the two coal-
black horses. Side by side, keeping pace in our swinging gallop,
we distanced the ostrich, we outstrode the zebra; and, as we
went, it seemed the wilderness blossomed like the rose.


. . . . . . .

I know not rightly how we got home that evening. On the road
there were everywhere strange presences, and the thud of phantom
hoofs encircled us. In my nose was the pungent circus-smell; the
crack of the whip and the frank laugh of the clown were in my
ears. The funny man thoughtfully abstained from conversation,
and left our illusion quite alone, sparing us all jarring
criticism and analysis; and he gave me no chance, when he
deposited us at our gate, to get rid of the clumsy expressions of
gratitude I had been laboriously framing. For the rest of the
evening, distraught and silent, I only heard the march-music of
the band, playing on in some corner of my brain. When at
last my head touched the pillow, in a trice I was with Zephyrine,
riding the boundless Sahara, cheek to cheek, the world well lost;
while at times, through the sand-clouds that encircled us,
glimmered the eyes of Coralie, touched, one fancied, with
something of a tender reproach.