"
Vardri went out still coughing, and came back flushed and excitable,
laden with various untidy parcels, from which some of the contents were
protruding. Long rolls, the materials for a salad, a _pate_, flowers,
and an enormous cluster of grapes. They pledged each other in the
yellow wine of the country, and presently Vardri set about the
manufacture of what he inaccurately described as Turkish coffee. That
the result of his efforts was half cold and evil-tasting mattered not
to either of them.
Arithelli's red hair was crowned with vine leaves that he had stripped
from the grape-cluster and twisted into a Bacchante wreath. She leant
her elbow on the table, resting her chin upon her hand. Her eyes
glowed jewel-like, almost the same colour as her garland. The flame of
love had melted into warmth her statue-like coldness, and given her the
one thing she had lacked--expression. Yet the mystery, the charm that
surrounded her clung to her even when she appeared most womanly. To
the boy lover gazing with devouring eyes she seemed that night more
than a woman.
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