“If so, I am not aware of the fact,” says Eric. “The Count de Choiseul was an elderly gentleman of elegant habits, who lived here—with his two daughters, I believe— and no doubt often took coffee on this terrace.” “An elderly gentleman, indeed!” says Sylvia, with scorn. “I know better than that. He was young, and handsome, and melancholy, like all poetic exiles, with dark eyes and a fascinating smile.” “And a snuff-box,” says Charley. “Being wealthy and charming,” Sylvia goes on, “he soon persuaded a young American beauty to discard countless adorers and marry him. They lived here very happily until the arrival of a mysterious stranger from France.” “There is too much mystery in the story,” says Rupert. “I object to it. Come and take some chicken. It is very good.” “After this,” proceeds the narrator, “a change came over the young bride. She seemed to shrink from her husband; she grew pale and lost her beauty. In the end she died mysteriously, and her ghost walks up and down this terrace every night.” “What killed her?” asks Rupert, with his mouth full of the chicken he had praised. “The loss of her beauty, probably,” says Charley. “That is a death-blow to some women.” “The best story-telling is that which leaves a margin to the imagination,” says Sylvia. “I should like to enter this house. I have no doubt I should find her chamber in one of those wings, with everything exactly as she left it—even to a pair of blue-satin slippers.” “I should like to find _those_,” says Rupert. “If you will indicate which wing you think her chamber likely to be in, I’ll climb up and break open a window.” “I don’t wonder that anybody, whether in the flesh or out of it, should come to admire this view,” says Eric, who is seated in the shade of the arched door, with a sandwich in one hand and a chicken-wing in the other. It is difficult to say how long we linger after luncheon is over, watching the loveliness of the shadow-dappled scene. The beauty, the subtile sadness, are too deep for expression. Save for the occasional notes of birds, everything is profoundly still. The bright sunshine seems full of pathos. On each side of the silent house is the interlacing shade of the park— “Now dim with shadows wandering blind, Now radiant with fair shapes of light.”