CHAPTER XIV.
THE ISLE OF HEARTS The room in which St.George was looking was long and lofty and hung with pale tapestries.

White pillars supporting the domed white ceiling were wound with garlands.

The smoke from a little brazen tripod ascended pleasantly, and about the windows stirred in the faint wind draperies of exceeding thinness, woven in looms stilled centuries ago.
Olivia was crossing before the windows.

She wore a white gown strewn with roses, and she seemed as much at home on this alien mountain-top as she had been in her aunt's drawing-room at the Boris.

But her face was sad, and there was not a touch of the piquancy which it had worn the night before in the throne-room, nor of its delicious daring as she had sped past him in the big Yaque touring car.