I longed to tell my good news to my sister.

“Clare,” I said, kneeling by her side, “look at me.  Do you know, can you guess, what news I have to tell you?”

She raised her eyes to mine; she laid her dear hand on my brow.

“I can guess,” she said, quietly.  “You have told Agatha you love her, and have asked her to be your wife.  Is that it?”

“Yes.  She has promised, Clare.  She loves me—­she whom I have always looked up to as some queen so far above me.”

“Any good woman would love you, Edgar,” said my sister.  She hesitated, then asked slowly:  “Have you said anything to Coralie?”

“Certainly not.  Why should I?”

A delicate color flushed my sister’s face.

“To tell you the truth,” she replied, “I have fancied of late that Coralie likes you.  Nay, I need not mince matters; I am quite sure she loves you.”

“She loves us both, because we are all in the world she has to love; but not in the way you mean, Clare.”

But Clare shook her head doubtfully.

“I hope I may be mistaken; but, Edgar, I have a nervous feeling about it, difficult to describe and hard to bear, as though evil would come to you through her.  I cannot tell you how the thought haunts and perplexes me.”

I laughed, little dreaming then how it would be.

“Sheer nervous fancy, Clare.  Take it at the very worst, that Coralie does like me, perhaps, a little too well, and is both piqued and angry at my engagement, in the name of common sense, I ask you, what possible harm can she do to me?”

“None that I can see; yet the dread lies heavy upon me, brother.”

“You will forget it all, darling, when you hear the chimes of wedding bells.  Ah, Clare, if you could get better I should not have a wish left ungratified.”

Then, still smiling at Clare’s nervous fancy, I went to the drawing-room.  Coralie was there awaiting me.  The picture, in all its details, rises before me as vividly as though I had only seen it yesterday.

Although the day had been warm, the evening was chilly, and a small fire burned brightly in the grate; the lamps were lighted, and gleamed like huge, soft, warm, pearls; the air of the room was heavy with sweet and subtle perfume.  I have seen no woman who could arrange flowers like Coralie.  The way in which she gathered them and placed each fragrant flower so that it could be most perfectly seen was wonderful.  Great masses of crimson against white, amber and blue.  She had the instinctive elegance of a true Parisienne.

It struck me as I entered that I had never seen so many lovely flowers; the vases and the stands were all full.  Coralie herself sat in a large velvet fauteuil, the rich color of which formed a magnificent background to her bright face and golden-brown hair.  She was dressed with unusual elegance; a robe of soft, black crape fell in graceful folds around her.  I never shall understand ladies’ dresses, but this was made so that the beautiful, white neck and arms were bare.