"
He looked at her, and took, her hands and kissed them--but reverently--as
a believer may kiss a shrine. In that moment to Flamen she was sacred; in
that moment he could no more have hurt her with passion than he could
have hurt her with a blow.
It was an emotion with him, and did not endure. But whilst it lasted, it
was true.
CHAPTER XVII.
Then he took her to dine at one of the wooden cafes under the trees.
There was a little sheet of water in front of it and a gay garden around.
There was a balcony and a wooden stairway; there were long trellised
arbors, and little white tables, and great rosebushes like her own at
home. They had an arbor all to themselves; a cool sweet-smelling bower of
green, with a glimpse of scarlet from the flowers of some twisting beans.
They had a meal, the like of which she had never seen; such a huge melon
in the centre of it, and curious wines, and coffee or cream in silver
pots, or what looked like silver to her--"just like the altar-vases in
the church," she said to herself.
"If only the Varnhart children were here!" she cried; but he did not echo
the wish.
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