The room was rosy with the glow of the setting sun, she breathed the scent of the mignonette at every breath, the air which she had picked out on the spinet in unison with his clear and sympathetic voice had those minor tones and slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic of the gay and tearful songs of southern France and all Spain.

None of which things are conducive to gaiety when one is young.
She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and made no answer.
But she played the air over again--the girls sing it to this day over their household work at Farlingford to other words--with her foot on the soft pedal.

The Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end of the room.
"This room is hot," she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose from her seat without troubling to finish the melody.
"And that window will not open, mademoiselle; for I have tried it," added Barebone, watching her impatient movements.
"Then I am going into the garden," she said, with a sharp sigh and a wilful toss of the head.
It was not his fault that the setting sun, against which, as many have discovered, men shut their doors, should happen to be burning hot or that the window would not open.

But Juliette seemed to blame him for it or for something else, perhaps.

One never knows.
Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the window talking to the Marquis, who was in a reminiscent humour.