The flowers, too, were luminous--indeed sparkling--gleaming brilliants of scarlet and vermilions lighter than the flood on which they lay, mauves and odd shades of reddish-blue.

They gleamed and shone like a little lake of jewels.
Rador broke in upon my musings.
"Lakla comes! Let us go down." It was a shy Lakla who came slowly around the end of the path and, blushing furiously, held her hands out to Larry.

And the Irishman took them, placed them over his heart, kissed them with a tenderness that had been lacking in the half-mocking, half-fierce caresses he had given the priestess.

She blushed deeper, holding out the tapering fingers--then pressed them to her own heart.
"I like the touch of your lips, Larry," she whispered.

"They warm me here"-- she pressed her heart again--"and they send little sparkles of light through me." Her brows tilted perplexedly, accenting the nuance of diablerie, delicate and fascinating, that they cast upon the flower face.
"Do you ?" whispered the O'Keefe fervently.