The Quest of the Golden Girl [60]
of you, all the same, and you can kiss me if you like. Here's a nice sentimental patch of moonlight."
I really felt very dejected at this not of course entirely unexpected rejection,--if one might use the word for a situation on which had just been set the seal of so unmistakable a kiss; but the vision in my heart seemed to smile at me in high and happy triumph. To have won Sylvia would have been to have lost her. My ideal had, as it were, held her breath till Sylvia answered; now she breathed again.
"At all events, we can go on being chums, can't we?" I said.
For answer Sylvia hummed the first verse of that famous song writ by Kit Marlowe.
"Yes!" she said presently. "I will sing for you, dance for you, and--perhaps--flirt with you; but marry you--no! it's best not, for both of us."
"Well, then," I said, "dance for me! You owe me some amends for an aching heart." As I said this, the path suddenly broadened into a little circular glade into which the moonlight poured in a silver flood. In the centre of the space was a boulder some three or four feet high, and with a flat slab-like surface of some six feet or so.
"I declare I will," said Sylvia, giving me an impulsive kiss, and springing on to the stone; "why, here is a ready-made stage."
"And there," I said, "are the nightingale and the nightjar for orchestra."
"And there is the moon," said she, "for lime-light man."
"Yes," I said; "and here is a handful of glow-worms for the footlights."
Then lifting up her heavy silk skirt about her, and revealing a paradise of chiffons, Sylvia swayed for a moment with her face full in the moon, and then slowly glided into the movements of a mystical dance.
It was thus the fountains were dancing to the moon in Arabia; it was thus the Nixies shook their white limbs on the haunted banks of the Rhine; it was thus the fairy women flashed their alabaster feet on the fairy hills of Connemara; it was thus the Houris were dancing for Mahomet on the palace floors of Paradise.
"It was over such dancing," I said, "that John the Baptist lost his head."
"Give me a kiss," she said, nestling exhausted in my arms. "I always want some one to kiss when I have danced with my soul as well as my body."
"I think we always do," I said, "when we've done anything that seems wonderful, that gives us the thrill of really doing--"
"And a poor excuse is better than none, isn't it, dear?" said Sylvia, her face full in the cataract of the moonlight.
As a conclusion for this chapter I will copy out a little song which I extemporised for Sylvia on our way home to Yellowsands-- too artlessly happy, it will be observed, to rhyme correctly:--
Sylvia's dancing 'neath the moon, Like a star in water; Sylvia's dancing to a tune Fairy folk have taught her.
Glow-worms light her little feet In her fairy theatre; Oh, but Sylvia is sweet! Tell me who is sweeter!
CHAPTER XII
AT THE CAFE DE LA PAIX
As love-making in which we have no share is apt to be either tantalising or monotonous, I propose to skip the next fortnight and introduce myself to the reader at a moment when I am once more alone. It is about six o'clock on a summer afternoon, I am in Paris, and seated at one of the little marble tables of the Cafe de la Paix, dreamily watching the glittering tide of gay folk passing by,--
"All happy people on their way To make a golden end of day."
Meditatively I smoke a cigarette and sip a pale greenish liquor smelling strongly of aniseed, which isn't half so interesting as a commonplace whiskey and soda, but which, I am told, has the recommendation of being ten times as wicked. I sip it with a delicious thrill of degeneration, as though I were Eve tasting the apple for the first time,--for "such a power hath white simplicity." Sin is for the innocent,--a truth which sinners will be the first to regret. It was so, I said to myself, Alfred de Musset used to sit and sip his absinthe before a fascinated world. It is a privilege for the world to look on greatness at any moment,
I really felt very dejected at this not of course entirely unexpected rejection,--if one might use the word for a situation on which had just been set the seal of so unmistakable a kiss; but the vision in my heart seemed to smile at me in high and happy triumph. To have won Sylvia would have been to have lost her. My ideal had, as it were, held her breath till Sylvia answered; now she breathed again.
"At all events, we can go on being chums, can't we?" I said.
For answer Sylvia hummed the first verse of that famous song writ by Kit Marlowe.
"Yes!" she said presently. "I will sing for you, dance for you, and--perhaps--flirt with you; but marry you--no! it's best not, for both of us."
"Well, then," I said, "dance for me! You owe me some amends for an aching heart." As I said this, the path suddenly broadened into a little circular glade into which the moonlight poured in a silver flood. In the centre of the space was a boulder some three or four feet high, and with a flat slab-like surface of some six feet or so.
"I declare I will," said Sylvia, giving me an impulsive kiss, and springing on to the stone; "why, here is a ready-made stage."
"And there," I said, "are the nightingale and the nightjar for orchestra."
"And there is the moon," said she, "for lime-light man."
"Yes," I said; "and here is a handful of glow-worms for the footlights."
Then lifting up her heavy silk skirt about her, and revealing a paradise of chiffons, Sylvia swayed for a moment with her face full in the moon, and then slowly glided into the movements of a mystical dance.
It was thus the fountains were dancing to the moon in Arabia; it was thus the Nixies shook their white limbs on the haunted banks of the Rhine; it was thus the fairy women flashed their alabaster feet on the fairy hills of Connemara; it was thus the Houris were dancing for Mahomet on the palace floors of Paradise.
"It was over such dancing," I said, "that John the Baptist lost his head."
"Give me a kiss," she said, nestling exhausted in my arms. "I always want some one to kiss when I have danced with my soul as well as my body."
"I think we always do," I said, "when we've done anything that seems wonderful, that gives us the thrill of really doing--"
"And a poor excuse is better than none, isn't it, dear?" said Sylvia, her face full in the cataract of the moonlight.
As a conclusion for this chapter I will copy out a little song which I extemporised for Sylvia on our way home to Yellowsands-- too artlessly happy, it will be observed, to rhyme correctly:--
Sylvia's dancing 'neath the moon, Like a star in water; Sylvia's dancing to a tune Fairy folk have taught her.
Glow-worms light her little feet In her fairy theatre; Oh, but Sylvia is sweet! Tell me who is sweeter!
CHAPTER XII
AT THE CAFE DE LA PAIX
As love-making in which we have no share is apt to be either tantalising or monotonous, I propose to skip the next fortnight and introduce myself to the reader at a moment when I am once more alone. It is about six o'clock on a summer afternoon, I am in Paris, and seated at one of the little marble tables of the Cafe de la Paix, dreamily watching the glittering tide of gay folk passing by,--
"All happy people on their way To make a golden end of day."
Meditatively I smoke a cigarette and sip a pale greenish liquor smelling strongly of aniseed, which isn't half so interesting as a commonplace whiskey and soda, but which, I am told, has the recommendation of being ten times as wicked. I sip it with a delicious thrill of degeneration, as though I were Eve tasting the apple for the first time,--for "such a power hath white simplicity." Sin is for the innocent,--a truth which sinners will be the first to regret. It was so, I said to myself, Alfred de Musset used to sit and sip his absinthe before a fascinated world. It is a privilege for the world to look on greatness at any moment,