It was
not until the following evening we remembered that time was always on
the wing, that our little bags would have to be packed. Next morning
we were going.
"Going away by the train," Doris said regretfully. "Would we were
going away in a carriage! We shall leave Orelay knowing nothing of it
but this suite of apartments."
"There is no reason why we should not drive," and I stopped packing my
bag, and stood looking at her.
"I wonder if we should have stayed three days if we had not discovered
these rooms? Dear one, I think I should not have meant so much to you
in those humbler rooms: you attach much importance to these cornices
and hangings."
"I should have loved you always, Doris, but I think I can love you
better here," and with our bags in our hands we wandered from the
bedroom into the drawing-room and stood admiring its bygone splendour.
"Doris, dear, you must play me 'The Nut Bush.' I want to hear it on
that old piano. Tinkle it, dear, tinkle it, and don't play 'The Nut
Bush' too sentimentally, nor yet too gaily."
"Which way will you have it?" she asked; "'a true love's truth or a
light love's art'?"
"I would have it dainty and fantastic as Schumann wrote it, 'only the
song of a secret bird.
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