“My kind and pretty Rosa!” muttered Cornelius casting on her a glance in which there was much more of the lover than of the gardener, and which afforded Rosa some consolation.
Then, after a silence of some moments, during which Cornelius had grasped through the openings of the grating for the receding hand of Rosa, he said,—
“Do you mean to say that the bulb has now been in the ground for six days?”
“Yes, six days, Mynheer Cornelius,” she answered.
“And it does not yet show leaf?”
“No, but I think it will to-morrow.”
“Well, then, to-morrow you will bring me news about it, and about yourself, won’t you, Rosa? I care very much for the daughter, as you called it just now, but I care even much more for the mother.”
“To-morrow?” said Rosa, looking at Cornelius askance. “I don’t know whether I shall be able to come to-morrow.”
“Good heavens!” said Cornelius, “why can’t you come to-morrow?”
“Mynheer Cornelius, I have lots of things to do.”