Its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite paleness
of Phyllis's complexion--that clear, warm paleness of the South--and
contrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. Her
dark, soft eyes glowed, her small hands had involuntarily clasped
themselves upon her breast. "What a little enthusiast you are!" Then
she stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for Elizabeth
was not emotional. Her feelings were as a still lake, whose depths
were only known to those who sounded them.

The conversation was not continued. Fine souls have an instinctive
knowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day the
limit of spiritual confidence had been reached. But it was Phyllis's
quicker nature which provided the natural return to the material life.

"I know I am enthusiastic, about many things, Elizabeth. The world
is so full of what is good and beautiful! Look at those roses! Could
flowers be more sweet and perfect? I always dream of happy things
among roses."

"But you must not dream now, dear. It is very near dinner-time. We
have had a very pleasant hour. I shall think of all you have said."

But the thing she thought most persistently of was Richard Fontaine's
temper. Was it possible that the equable charm and serenity of his
mood was only an assumed one? As she went to the dining-room she saw
him standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. In the same
moment he raised his head and stood watching her approach. It seemed
to him as if he had never seen her before. She advanced slowly toward
him through the level rays of the westering sun, which projected
themselves in a golden haze all around her. Those were not the days of