He started slightly, and, stretching out his hand, took a spray out of the epergne. "I thought it was lilac," he said, quietly. "I noticed it when I came in." She took the spray from him and fastened it in his coat, against which her hands looked white as the driven snow. "You shall take it to your own room, Ley," she said. "You shall take them all." "Not for worlds, Lil," he said. "This will do." "And what are they doing?" she asked. "The usual thing," he replied; "playing, singing, rubber at whist, and boring each other to death generally." She smiled. "And what have you been doing?" "Assisting in the latter amusement," he answered, lightly. "They told me you had gone out," she said. He nodded. "Yes, I took the chestnut for a spin." She laughed, a soft, hushed laugh. "And left them the first night! That was like you, Ley!" "What was the use of staying? It was wrong, I suppose. I am unfortunate! Yes, I went for a ride." "It was a lovely evening. I watched the sunset," and she looked at the window. "If I had known you were going, I would have looked for you. I like to see you riding that big chestnut. You went across the meadows?" "Yes," he said, "across the meadows." He was silent for a minute, then he said, suddenly, "Lil, I have seen a vision to-night." "A vision, Ley!" she repeated, looking up at him eagerly. He nodded. "A vision. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, excepting you, Lil!" She made no protest, but smiled. "Ley! A girl! What was she like?" "I can't tell you," he said. "I came upon her in a moment. The chestnut saw her first, and was human enough to be struck motionless. I was struck too!" "And you can't tell me what she was like?" "No; if I were to describe her with usual phrases you would smile. You women always do. You can't help being a woman, Lil!" "Was she dark or fair?" "Dark," he replied. "I did not know it at the time; it was impossible to think whether she was dark or fair while one looked at her, but I remembered afterward. Lil, you remember that picture I sent you from Paris--the picture of the girl with the dark eyes and long, silky hair--not black, but brown in the sunlight, with long lashes shading the eyes, and the lips curved in a half-serious smile as she looks down at the dog fawning at her feet?" "I remember, Ley. Was she like that?" "Yes; only alive. Fancy the girl in the picture alive. Fancy yourself the dog she was smiling at! I was the dog!" "Ley!" "And she spoke as well as smiled. You can imagine the voice that girl in the picture would have. Soft and musical, but clear as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half mockery. It was the voice of the girl I met in the lane this evening." "Ley! Ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. I am very grateful." "Poetry! It is truth. But you are right; such a face, such a voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives."