“I do, I do,” she replied. “You are all in all to me. Would I have disobeyed my father’s dying wish if I had not loved you best of all? I love no one else, Adrian.” “And I love no one else,” he answered with a laugh. “Come, Nancy, we have a whole month to make merry in. We will make merry—we’ll have a royal good time. Do you hear that music in the courtyard? Does it not seem to draw you?” “It does,” she replied, “it is wonderful.” “We’ll go and sit there, and listen to it.” “But there are strangers there, and I am shy.” “You shan’t be shy long, my beauty—you shall meet fresh faces daily, and fresh lives will touch your life, and your time will be gay, very gay. We will go out shopping to-morrow and you shall buy lovely things—wonderful raiment of all sorts to make a fit setting for that grave, soft, magical loveliness of yours. I shall take delight in choosing things for you. You don’t know yourself yet, Nance; you don’t know what a great gift is yours, what a power you have in your face; but your beauty will be acknowledged by all when you wear the things which I shall buy for you. Yes, we will have a fine time to-morrow, just the time which they say a woman loves. But now, come downstairs with me and sit in the court.” “They are all wearing wraps of some sort, and I have nothing pretty,” said Nancy. “You know that I came to you without a trousseau, Adrian.” “What is a trousseau?” asked Rowton. “Oh! all the pretty things that brides bring to the men they love—they are called by the collective name ‘trousseau.’” “Then this right loyal lover will give his bride the pretty things himself, and—stay a moment, a recollection comes to me. I believe I stuffed something into my portmanteau, something which I thought would suit you. Wait a moment.” Rowton went into the adjoining bedroom. He returned in a few moments with a thin parcel wrapped in tissue paper. “There,” he said, “you can wrap that round you. I don’t believe a lady down there will have anything more radiant to sun herself in.” Nancy took the pins out of the paper and the next moment a gossamer shawl woven with what appeared like every thread of the rainbow—as light as a feather, as fine as a cobweb—was extended on her arm. “This is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I never saw anything so like a bit of the sun itself.” “It came from Persia, it is only a trifle,” said Rowton. “I thought of you when I put it away; let me wrap it round you; now come down stairs.” CHAPTER VIII. AT THE OPERA HOUSE.