Ten paces in front of her, a gap in the shrubbery where tall trees rose
left a small radiant area of illumination like that of a lime-light in a
theatre, its brilliancy intensified by the dark foliage behind. It was
open to view only from the bench by which she stood, and appeared, indeed,
like the stage of a little theatre a stage occupied by a bizarre figure.
For, in the centre of this shining patch, with the light strong on his
face, was standing a fair-haired young man, dressed in a yellow coat, a
scarlet and white striped waistcoat, wearing a jauntily cocked black hat
on his bead. And even to the last detail, the ribbon laces above the ankle
and the gold-buckled shoes, be was the sketch of Georges Meilhac sprung
into life.

About this slender figure there hung a wan sweetness like a fine mist,
almost an ethereality in that light; yet in the pale face lurked something
reckless, something of the actor, too; and though his smile was gentle and
wistful, there was a twinkle behind it, not seen at first, something
amused and impish; a small surprise underneath, like a flea in a rose-jar.

Fixed to the spot by this apparition, Miss Betty stood wildly staring, her
straining eyelids showing the white above and below the large brown iris.
Her breath came faster and deeper, until, between her parted lips it
became vocal in a quick sound like a sob. At that he spoke.

"Forgive me!" The voice was low, vibrant,

and so exceedingly musical that he might have been accused of coolly
selecting his best tone; and it became only sweeter when, even more
softly, in a semi-whisper of almost crucial pleading, he said, "Ah--don't
go away!"