tapered again to the tips of the long fingers; nor that she was of that
slenderness as strong as it is delicate; not all the exquisite regularity
of line and mould, nor simplicity of color, gave her that significance
which made the Incroyable declare to himself that he stood for the first
time in the presence of Beauty, and that now he knew the women he had been
wont to call beautiful were but pretty. And yet her beauty, he told
himself, was the least of her loveliness, for there was a glamour about
her. It was not only the richness of her youth; but there was an ineffable
exhalation which seemed to be made partly of light, partly of the very
spirit of her, and, oddly enough, partly of the scent of the little fan
that hung by a ribbon from her waist. This was a woman like a wine, he
felt, there was a bouquet.

In regard to the bouquet of the young man himself, if he possessed one, it
is pertinent to relate that at this very instant the thought skipped
across his mind (like the hop of a flea in a rose-jar) that some day he
might find the moment when he could tell her the truth about herself--with
a half-laugh--and say: "The angels sent their haloes in a sandal-wood box
to be made into a woman--and it was you!"

"If- you have anything to say for yourself, say it quickly!" said Miss
Betty.

"You were singing a while ago," he answered, somewhat huskily, "and I
stopped on the street to listen; then I came here to be nearer. The spell
of your voice " He broke off abruptly to change the word. "The spell of
the song came over me-- it is my dearest favorite--so that I stood
afterward in a sort of trance, only hearing again, in the silence, `The
stolen heart, like the gathered rose, will bloom but for a day!' I did not
see you until you came to the bench. You must believe me: I would not have