"
"How like you," she responded, with a touch of her old manner. "I ask
for comfort and you give me an epigram."
"Many people find satisfaction in epigrams," he reminded her. "Sometimes
a snap-shot is better than an oil painting."
"Or a geometrical design, or even a map," she continued, catching his
mood. The talk drifted to happier themes and Madame was quite herself
again at dusk, when she rose to go.
On the way back, she passed Allison, returning home to dinner by a well-
worn path, but he was thinking of something else and did not see her at
all.
The lilac-scented midnight was starred here and there with white blooms
when May went out and June came in. Drifts of "bridal wreath" were
banked against the side of the house and a sweet syringa breathed out a
faint perfume toward the hedge of lilacs beyond. Blown petals of pink
and white died on the young grass beneath Madame's wild crab-apple tree,
transplanted from a distant woodland long ago to glorify her garden.
The hour was one of enchantment, yet to Rose, leaning out into the
moonless night, the beauty of it brought only pain.
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