The Cardinal's Snuff Box

He looked at her--warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft,

white gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him

--he looked at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown

hair, at the white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue

veins in her forehead, at her fine white hands, clasped loosely

together in her lap, at the flowing lines of her figure, with

its supple grace and strength; and behind her, surrounding her,

accessory to her, he was conscious of the golden August world,

in the golden August weather--of the green park, and the pure

sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and the

blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of

the long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the

house, and the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining

round its columns. The picture was very beautiful--but

something was wanting to perfect its beauty; and the name of

the something that was wanting sang itself in poignant

iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and

longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated . . . .

And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the

grinding of carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears--and so

the situation was saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose

to think it. For next minute a servant appeared on the

terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave.