"Paul," she cooed plaintively, "to-morrow I shall be reasonable again,
perhaps, and human, but to-day I am capricious and wayward, and
mustn't be teased. I want to read about Cupid and Psyche from this
wonderful 'Golden Ass' of Apuleius--just a simple tale for a wet
day--and you and--me!"

"Read then!" said Paul, resigned.

And she commenced in Latin, in a chanting, tender voice. Paul had
forgotten most of the Latin he knew, but he remembered enough to be
aware that this must be as easy as English to her as it flowed along
in a rich rhythmic sound.

It soothed him. He seemed to be dreaming of flowery lands and running
streams. After a while she looked up again, and then with one of her
sudden movements like a graceful cat, she was beside him leaning from
the back of his chair.

"Paul!" she whispered right in his ear, "am I being wicked for you
to-day? I cannot help it. The devil is in me--and now I must sing."

"Sing then!" said Paul, maddened with again arising emotion.

She seized a guitar that lay near, and began in a soft voice in some
language he knew not--a cadence of melody he had never heard, but one
whose notes made strange quivers all up his spine. An exquisite
pleasure of sound that was almost pain. And when he felt he could bear
no more, she flung the instrument aside, and leant over his chair
again--caressing his curls with her dainty fingers, and purring
unknown strange words in his ear.