To Kirk, it was a
place under a spell; to the others, who could see its grave,
vine-covered, outer walls and its dim interior crowded with strange and
wonderful things, it seemed a lodging place for memories, among which
the Maestro moved as if he himself were living a remembered dream.
On this rich September afternoon, they found him standing on the upper
terrace, waiting for them. He took Kirk's hand, offered his arm
gallantly to Felicia, and they all entered the high-studded hall, where
the firelight, reaching rosy shafts from the library, played
catch-as-catch-can with the shadows.
Supper, a little later, was served in the dining-room--the first meal
that the Sturgises had eaten there. Tall candles burned in taller silver
candlesticks; their light flowed gently across the gleaming cloth,
touched the Maestro's white hair, and lost itself timidly in the dim
area outside the table. Kirk was enthroned in a big carved chair at the
foot of the table, very grave and happy, with a candle at either side.
"A fit shrine for devotion," murmured the Maestro, looking across at
him, and then, turning, busied himself vigorously with the carving.
It was a quite wonderful supper--banquet would have been a more fitting
name for it, the Sturgises thought. For such food was not seen on the
little table at Applegate Farm. And there was raspberry wine, in which
to drink Kirk's health, and the Maestro stood up and made a beautiful
speech.
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