which are ever so much nicer than this old one. Why don't you take one of those?"
"This is not Nouri Pasha's house," she corrected me. "This is my own house. I was born here, and I love it. You mustn't call it old, otherwise it will be offended, and its shadow will grow dark when you come into it."
I did not say anything for a while, and it was she who spoke again.
"You know Nouri Pasha then?"
"Oh, yes. He lives near us on the island, and I love the horses he rides. They are so large and shiny; and I can tell it is his carriage from very far off, because he has so many unnecessary chains on the harness, which dangle and make a fuss."
She laughed like a child at this description, and I, encouraged by the laugh, asked boldly:
"Did you love him very much?"
"I think so," she replied simply.
"Frightfully?"
The girlish adverb amused her.
"Perhaps—even so."
As she said the last words her voice became remote, her eyes took on their unhuman expression, and she turned again into the Lady of the Fountain. Yet her lips opened, and she said:
"Tell me a story, fairy child, a story about Paris."
And because Alexander Dumas père has lived
