“You foolish boy,” she said, “as if I would care for a silly thing like that. Why should I care what sort of eyes you prefer?”
“But I should much prefer that you liked blue eyes. Do you?”
“I don’t know whether I do or not. It isn’t a matter that I ever think about.”
“No,” returned Victor reflectively, “I don’t suppose you do—yet. I hope we shall have fine weather for our journey to-morrow, don’t you?”
“Our journey? Are you going, too?”
“Of course. I promised your father that I would see you to the very end of it, and take word back to him of how you fared.”
“You didn’t tell me that before.”
“No, but I tell you now. I hope you are going to be comfortable and happy, happier than you have been here.”
“It has not been so bad of late, but I shall not be grieved to go. I am longing for spring in the country. Is it real country to which we are going? You can tell me that much, can’t you?”
“I think one would call it real country.”