Although the day had been warm, the evening was chilly, and a small fire burned brightly in the grate; the lamps were lighted, and gleamed like huge, soft, warm, pearls; the air of the room was heavy with sweet and subtle perfume. I have seen no woman who could arrange flowers like Coralie. The way in which she gathered them and placed each fragrant flower so that it could be most perfectly seen was wonderful. Great masses of crimson against white, amber and blue. She had the instinctive elegance of a true Parisienne. It struck me as I entered that I had never seen so many lovely flowers; the vases and the stands were all full. Coralie herself sat in a large velvet fauteuil, the rich color of which formed a magnificent background to her bright face and golden-brown hair. She was dressed with unusual elegance; a robe of soft, black crape fell in graceful folds around her. I never shall understand ladies' dresses, but this was made so that the beautiful, white neck and arms were bare. I remember, too, that she had great sprays of heliotrope in the bodice of her dress and in her hair. She looked more lovely, more seductive, than any words of mine could describe, if I wrote for six months. On the table by her side was a tray set with delicate china and silver, over which the firelight played cheerily. It was a picture of luxurious home comfort. She looked up as I entered with a grave, sweet smile. "Your coffee is ready, Sir Edgar." There was my favorite chair drawn up to the table. As I sat down I said aloud: "This is comfortable." Her smile brightened and deepened. "You are like Miles, Sir Edgar. No matter where he went, he always said coming home was the most pleasant part of the day." Then, with her white, jeweled hand, she poured out my coffee, and certainly the aromatic fragrance was very pleasant. "You must be like Miles in something else," she said. "He always declared that I made better coffee than anyone else--better than he tasted in all his travels. Do you not think the same?" And she looked at me as anxiously as though the making of coffee to please me were the chief aim of life. "Was Sir John at home?" she asked, after a few minutes. Then I had to describe my day, to give her a history of the coming fair, in which she affected great interest. "I should like to go very much," she said. "I have read in fashionable novels of fancy fairs, but I have never seen one. Are you going, Sir Edgar?" "Lady Thesiger has asked my assistance, and I have promised it. We shall make up a party. If you wish to go, Coralie, you shall." She thanked me, and when I had finished my coffee, rang the bell and ordered it to be cleared away. "I am going to sing to you," she said. "I know you are tired. Throw your head back, shut your eyes and listen. Do not speak, because I am going to weave a charm for you." I declare before Heaven that when I remember the magic of that charm my heart beats even now with fear!