Here, I must own, that to the reader of my story it must appear to
drag a little.
In default of exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I would fain
have known how to infuse into it a little of the sweet perfumes of the
gardens which surround me, something of the gentle warmth of the
sunshine, of the shade of these graceful trees. Love being wanting, I
should like it to breathe of the restful tranquillity of this far-away
suburb. Then, too, I should like it to reëcho the sound of
Chrysanthème's guitar, in which I begin to find a certain charm, for
want of something better, in the silence of the lovely summer
evenings.
All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather has been calm,
luminous and magnificent. Ah! what glorious clear nights, what
exquisite roseate tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of
blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees. And, from the heights
where stood our verandah, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our
feet!
After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysanthème, and
when there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a
make-shift of attachment.