"Do not have them alight, I prithee, Phyllis. The dusk of this early twilight is so ravishing, so enchanting! What you English call the gloaming induces in one a tender feeling of delicious melancholy, that to me is more pleasure than pain. At this hour I always feel like singing little love-songs such as this," and she skipped across the floor to where the spinet stood open. Thrumming softly some opening chords, she trilled a few lines of a French serenade--"Je t'aime, mon ange, je t'aime," with a passion of sweetness, such as a lovelorn troubadour, with tinkling lute, might have sung 'neath his lady's lattice casement. Then whirling around, she laughed lightly, saying:
"I have learned that from Leon. Poor, dear Leon, he has of late taken to singing the most tender, heart-touching melodies. He delights in long, lonely walks when the moon shines, and I have discovered him even composing verse and love-sonnets. I am told these are the signs of the grand passion."