His Love Story by Marie Van Vorst

There was music at the Villa des Bougainvilleas. Miss Redmond sang; / not _Good-night, God Keep You Safe_, but other things. Ever since / her talk with Hammet Abou she had been, if not gay, in good spirits, / more like her old self, and the Marquise d'Esclignac began to think / that the image of Charles de Sabron had not been cut too deeply upon / her mind. The marquise, from the lounge in the shadow of the room, / enjoyed the picture (Sabron would not have added it to his / collection) of her niece at the piano and the Duc de Tremont by her / side. The Comtesse de la Maine sat in a little shadow of her own, / musing and enjoying the picture of the Duc de Tremont and Miss / Redmond very indifferently. She did not sing; she had no parlor / accomplishments. She was poor, a widow, and had a child. She was / not a brilliant match.

From where he stood, Tremont could see the Comtesse de la Maine in / her little shadow, the oriental decorations a background to her / slight Parisian figure, and a little out of the shadow, the bright / aigret in her hair danced, shaking its sparkles of fire. She looked / infinitely sad and infinitely appealing. One bare arm was along the / back of her lounge. She leaned her head upon her hand.