in a motley brilliance that was softened by the green
of their leaves.

'We shall never be able to see it all,' said Serge, smiling and waving
his hand. 'It would be very nice to sit down here, amongst all this
perfume.'

Near them there was a large patch of heliotropes, whose vanilla-like
breath permeated the air with velvety softness. They sat down upon one
of the fallen columns, in the midst of a cluster of magnificent lilies
which had shot up there. They had been walking for more than an hour.
They had wandered on through the flowers from the roses to the lilies.
These offered them a calm, quiet haven after their lovers' ramble amid
the perfumed solicitations of luscious honeysuckle, musky violets,
verbenas that breathed out the warm scent of kisses, and tuberoses that
panted with voluptuous passion. The lilies, with their tall slim stems,
shot up round them like a white pavilion and sheltered them with snowy
cups, gleaming only with the gold of their slender pistils. And
there they rested, like betrothed children in a tower of purity; an
impregnable ivory tower, where all their love was yet perfect innocence.

Albine and Serge lingered amongst the lilies till evening. They felt
so happy there, and seemed to break out into a new life. Serge felt the
last trace of fever leave his hands, while Albine grew quite white, with
a milky whiteness untinted by any rosy hue. They were unconscious
that their arms and necks and shoulders were bare, and their straying
unconfined hair in nowise troubled them. They laughed merrily one at the
other, with frank open laughter. The expression of their eyes retained
the limpid calmness of clear spring water. When they quitted the lilies,
their feelings were but those of children ten years old; it seemed to
them that they had just met each other in that garden so that they might
be friends for ever and amuse themselves with perpetual play. And as
they returned through the parterre, the very flowers bore themselves
discreetly, as though they were glad to see their childishness, and
would do nothing that might corrupt them. The forests of peonies, the
masses of carnations, the carpets of forget-me-nots, the curtains
of clematis now steeped in the atmosphere of evening, slumbering in
childlike purity akin to their own, no longer spread suggestions of
voluptuousness around them. The pansies looked up at them with their
little candid faces, like playfellows; and the languid mignonette, as