“This is perfectly magical,” murmured Alfred.  He spoke in a low, almost reverential tone; for the spell of moonlight was on him, and the clear, soft voice of the singer, the novelty of her peculiar beauty, and the surpassing gracefulness of her motions, as she swayed gently to the music of the tones she produced, inspired him with a feeling of poetic deference.  Through the partially open window came the lulling sound of a little trickling fountain in the garden, and the air was redolent of jasmine and orange-blossoms.  On the pier-table was a little sleeping Cupid, from whose torch rose the fragrant incense of a nearly extinguished pastille.  The pervasive spirit of beauty in the room, manifested in forms, colors, tones, and motions, affected the soul as perfume did the senses.  The visitors felt they had stayed too long, and yet they lingered.  Alfred examined the reclining Cupid, and praised the gracefulness of its outline.

“Cupid could never sleep here, nor would the flame of his torch ever go out,” said Mr. Fitzgerald; “but it is time we were going out.”

The young gentlemen exchanged parting salutations with their host and his daughters, and moved toward the door.  But Mr. Fitzgerald paused on the threshold to say, “Please play us out with Mozart’s ‘Good Night.’”

“As organists play worshippers out of the church,” added Mr. King.

Rosabella bowed compliance, and, as they crossed the outer threshold, they heard the most musical of voices singing Mozart’s beautiful little melody, “Buona Notte, amato bene.”  The young men lingered near the piazza till the last sounds floated away, and then they walked forth in the moonlight,—­Fitzgerald repeating the air in a subdued whistle.

His first exclamation was, “Isn’t that girl a Rose Royal?”

“She is, indeed,” replied Mr. King; “and the younger sister is also extremely fascinating.”

“Yes, I thought you seemed to think so,” rejoined his companion.  “Which do you prefer?”

Shy of revealing his thoughts to a stranger, Mr. King replied that each of the sisters was so perfect in her way, the other would be wronged by preference.

“Yes, they are both rare gems of beauty,” rejoined Fitzgerald.  “If I were the Grand Bashaw, I would have them both in my harem.”

The levity of the remark jarred on the feelings of his companion, who answered, in a grave, and somewhat cold tone, “I saw nothing in the manners of the young ladies to suggest such a disposition of them.”

“Excuse me,” said Fitzgerald, laughing.  “I forgot you were from the land of Puritans.  I meant no indignity to the young ladies, I assure you.  But when one amuses himself with imagining the impossible, it is not worth while to be scrupulous about details.  I am not the Grand Bashaw; and when I pronounced them fit for his harem, I merely meant a compliment to their superlative beauty.  That Floracita is a mischievous little sprite.  Did you ever see anything more roguish than her expression while she was singing ’Petit blanc, mon bon frere’?”