Lily did not answer.  She stood puzzled, striving to separate the confused notions the room conveyed to her.  She wore on her shoulders a small black lace shawl and held a black silk parasol.  She was very slender, and her features were small and regular, and so white was her face that the blue eyes seemed the only colour.  There was, however, about the cheek-bones just such tint as mellow as a white rose.

“How beautiful you are to-day.  I knew you would be beautiful when you discarded that shocking habit; but you are far more beautiful than I thought.  Let me kiss you.”

“No, you will make me regret that I came here.  I wanted to see where you lived, so that when I was away I could imagine you writing your poems.  Have you nothing more to show me?  I want to see everything.”

“Yes, come, I will show you our dining-room.  Mr. Escott often gives dinner-parties.  You must get your mother to bring you.”

“I should like to.  But what a good idea to have book-cases in the passages, they furnish the walls so well.  And what are those rooms?”

“Those belong to Escott.  Here is where I sleep.”

“What a strange room!” discountenanced by the great Christ.  She turned her head.

“That crucifix is a present from Frank.  He bought it in Paris.  It is superb expression of the faith of the Middle Ages.”

“Old ages, I should think; it is all worm-eaten.  And that Virgin?  I did not know you were so religious.”

“I do not believe in Christianity, but I think Christ is picturesque.”

“Christ is very beautiful.  When I prayed to Him an hour passed like a little minute.  It always seemed to me more natural to pray to Him than to the Virgin Mary.  But is that your bed?”

Upon a trellis supported by lion’s claws a feather bed was laid.  The sheets and pillows were covered with embroidered cloth, the gift of some unhappy lady, and about the twisted columns heavy draperies hung in apparent disorder.  Lily sat down on the pouff ottoman.  Mike took two Venetian glasses, poured out some champagne, and sat at her feet.  She sipped the wine and nibbled a biscuit.

“Tell me about the convent,” he said.  “That is now a thing over and done.”

“Fortunately I was not professed; had I taken vows I could not have broken them.”

“Why not?  A nun cannot be kept imprisoned nowadays.”

“I should not have broken my vows.”

“It was I who saved you from them—­if you had not fallen in love with me ...”

“I never said I had fallen in love with you; I liked you, that was all.”

“But it was for me you left the convent?”

“No; I had made up my mind to leave the convent long before I saw you.  So you thought it was love at first sight.”

“On my part, at least, it was love at first sight.  How happy I am!—­I can scarcely believe I have got you.  To have you here by me seems so unreal, so impossible.  I always loved you.  I want to tell you about myself.  You were my ideal when I was a boy; I had already imagined you; my poems were all addressed to you.  My own sweet ideal that none knew of but myself.  You shall come and see me all the summer through, in this room—­our room.  When will you come again?”