Here I must own that my story must appear to the reader to drag a
little.
Lacking exciting intrigues and tragic adventures, I wish I knew 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 faraway spot. Then, too, I
should like it to reecho the sound of Chrysantheme’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 veranda, how prettily the town lay sleeping at our feet!
After all, I do not positively detest this little Chrysantheme, and when
there is no repugnance on either side, habit turns into a makeshift of
attachment.