The Argosy — page 377: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Sabrina. 305 “TI should not have ‘married her. Before I speak to Sabrina, will you tell her this °” “ But your love is the child of a dream.” “ No,” he returned passionately. ‘‘ The dream only awoke me to a sense of the reality.” “T will send her to you and you shall tell her yourself.” Of course I knew that Sabrina had heard every word. Perhaps, though—-girls are so foolish—she would prefer the halting speech he would use towards her. So I went out into the passage and into our bedroom. There lay Sabrina, apparently fast asleep, with her bands folded under her hot cheek. I knew she was no more asleep than I was, but I did not dare to say anything ; Miles would be sure to hear. So I went back to him, and told him he could not see her. He was sadly disappointed. “TI must go to England to-morrow about my pictures,” he said. “Do not let her forget me, Miss Patience.” And he wrung my hand. V. FerGET him! there was no fear of that. I saw it in her eye, heard it in the broken modulations of her voice, and was alternately tormented and charmed by her April moods. Petulance combined with tender caresses, naughtiness mingled with humility. Of these I was the reci- pient, the scapegoat, a mere lay figure, as it were, to try her various humours upon. As before, she never spoke of Miles ; not even when we had returned to Paris, and Margery had taken rooms near us with three of the “dear boys,” who attempted their old tyranny ; but that I promptly put down. Margery was curious about Miles; she knew he had been in Paris, and had an inkling that he cared for Sabrina. “Tam always afraid he will marry some penniless girl, and that means tuin to a man like him ; so unpractical, you know, like all artists.” This was said to Sabrina one evening when I was absent. It was petty of Margery, but weak women are apt to take small revenges. So the days went on, till Sabrina and I, having a holiday, stole away for a drive in the forest of St. Germain, for once without Margery and the boys. We were in the early part of May; the air was soft and balmy, the grass waved fresh that afternoon, stirred by the fingers of little vagrant breezes. The birds sang madrigals to the great green forest, all dappled with golden sunshine and shifting shadows. At St. Germain, after leaving the railway station, we took one of the roomy ‘ fiacres’ and started for our drive, leaving care behind ; at least I can answer for myself. I think an irritating consciousness about Miles disturbed Sabrina’s contentment, as we drove along the woodland paths, so narrow in some places that the branches brushed our faces. Our destination was the ‘‘ Couvent des Loges,” in the heart of the forest ; not that we wished to visit the convent, but to gather lilies of the valley. In Paris the flower-women were selling VOL. XL. x SS (GO) COMnnlicOOOlkKS