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.