extinguished and the dawn could ill penetrate, Idalia returned. Her step was weary, and her face, as the illumination from the chandelier, still burning in the window where he stood, fell on it, was pale, even to the lips on which, as some poet has it, "a sigh seemed set"—unuttered.
"You have remained after the rest!—how is that? It is as well, though, as it is. I wish to speak to you—alone."
The words themselves might have fed many a wild hope, many a vain thought, in any man less single-hearted and less incapable of misconstruing her meaning than he was. With him all the light died out from his face as he heard: he knew that if she would have listened to his passion she would not have returned to him now—she would not have addressed him thus.
He bowed gravely, and stood waiting for her pleasure. The forbearance was not lost on her. Idalia, more than any other woman, could appreciate this deference which gave her untainted comprehension, this delicacy which took no advantage of her return to him in solitude. She moved on towards one of the windows, and stood there, between the grey light of the rising day and the radiance of her own card-room.
