the shadow that seemed on her, and abandoned herself to the gay glitter of the hour. Watching her, he could have fancied, had not the thought been too fantastic, that she had taken the Chartreuse as men take hot wines—to shake off thought, and give their spirits recklessness. Yet what could this woman, with her splendour, her power, her youth, and her fascination, desire that she had not? What could be the canker at the core of that purple and odorous pomegranate flower of her life?
The various courses were served admirably; and he might have been dining at a palace for the lavishness of the banquet. There was great brilliance, too, in the conversation; for in her presence every one strove to shine. There was considerable freedom in the topics and in the wit—more than is customary in the presence of most women, though never actually sufficient to become licence; but now and then there were flashes of jest at which Erceldoune ground his teeth: they were a profanation to his ideal—a taint on his angel. Unconsciously he had so idealised and etherealised her in his thoughts, that a soil of earth on her would defame if it were too late to dethrone her. "That is not the tone in which men speak before a hostess they reverence," he said in his soul, with fiery bitterness, while he
