Columbine lay sleeping on her heart. The long white hands were clasped
beneath those cheeks round which tumbled the golden curls. The coverlet,
thrown back in a restless dream, revealed her bent arms bare to the
elbow. The nightgown allowed a dim outline of her shoulder to appear
faintly, and where a pale blue bow had come untied, the dimple in her
throat was visible. The gay, deep eyes were closed beneath azure lids,
but the pencilled eyebrows still slanted mockingly, and round her red
lips was the curve of laughter. Awake, her complexion had the fragility
of rosy porcelain: in sleep the color fled, leaving it dead white as new
ivory.
Columbine lay sleeping, a miniature stolen from the world's collection.
The night wore on. The wind shook the old house. Dawn broke
tempestuously.
Now should Harlequin have hurried down the unreal street and, creeping
in magically, have kissed her a welcome to the sweet and careless
"twenties" that would contain the best of his Columbine's life.