And the evening came, misty but mild, with the moon peering
doubtfully through a fleecy veil of fine floating vapour, which,
gathering flashes of luminance from the silver orb, turned to the
witch-lights of an opal,--and Aubrey made his way to the Casa
D'Angeli, which in his own mind he called the "Palais D'lffry," in
memory of the old Breton song Sylvie had sung. On giving his name he
was at once shown up into the great salon, now made beautiful by the
picturesque and precious things accumulated there, and arranged with
the individuality and taste of the presiding spirit. She was quite
alone, seated in a deep easy chair near the fire,--and her dress, of
some faint shell-pink hue, clung about her in trailing soft folds
which fell in a glistening heap of crushed rose-tints at her feet,
making a soft rest for her tiny dog who was luxuriously curled
therein. The firelight shed a warm glow around her,--flickering
brightly on her fair hair, on her white arms, and small hands where
one or two diamonds flashed like drops of dew,--and Aubrey, as he
entered, was conscious of an overpowering sense of weakness, poverty
of soul, narrowness of mind, incompetency of attainment,--for the
tranquillity and sweet perfection of the picture his eyes rested
upon--a picture lovelier than even the Gretchen which tempted
Goethe's Faust to Hell,--made him doubtful of his own powers--
mistrustful of his own worth.
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