long since snoring among the gimcracks of her bedroom, and they believed that she herself was out, at the theater with Rebecca. In the French manner, the servants did not matter; it is probable that of all the people in the house they knew most of Lily and her life.
The Baron's voice, deep and rich, drifted up to the open window.
"Jean, you say, will be back from school in June?"
He wore his uniform, and the perfection of its lines emphasized all the trim, masculine hardness of his slight figure. Beside him in her black gown, with the stole of sable thrown round her for warmth, Lily was soft and lovely. His voice it seemed, caressed her.
"He is growing big now . . . fourteen. Think of it. . . ." He laughed softly. "You with a big boy of fourteen! It is impossible . . . incroyable!"
Lily said something which was not audible and then, "Yes. We must be more careful. He will begin to see things."
"In England boys are not so sharp . . . at least not about affairs between men and women."
In silence they walked for a time, once up and once down the terrace. The leaves of the plane trees rustled and a boat far below in the Seine whistled faintly. Once more they passed beneath the window.
"June is more than a month away," said the Baron. "We could go to Nice for three long weeks."
Lily, it seemed, was unwilling, for he argued with her, saying in a voice that would have melted steel, "Think of it. . . . We have not been alone for months. Think of it . . . the mornings . . . waking together . . . looking out over the bay. . . . Alone . . . alone." He paused suddenly and seizing her in his arms kissed her. For a long time they stood thus. Ellen could see them quite plainly, standing in the shadow of one of the white urns, Lily with her head against his shoulder while he kissed her again and again.
Then slowly, with the air of waking from a dream, Lily raised
