He gave her a short quick look grave enough in its way, but responded with his usual graceful humor, “The thistle-down is too vicious a sprite to be beguiled away so easily. If I were to give my opinion on the subject, I should say there was method in its madness. If you have been brought up in the country, as I suspect from your remark, you must know that the white floating ball is not as harmless as it would lead you to imagine. It is a meddlesome nobody, that’s what it is, and like some country gossips I know, launches forth from a pure love of mischief to establish his prickers in his neighbor’s field.”
“His! I thought it must be feminine at least to fulfill the conditions you mention. A male gossip, O fie! I shall never have patience with a thistle-ball after this.”
“Well,” laughed he, “I did start with the intention of making it feminine, but I caught a glimpse of your eyes and lost my courage. I did what I could,” added he with a mirthful glance.
“So do the thistles,” cried she. Then while both voices joined in a merry laugh, she continued, “But where have we strayed? For a moment it seemed as if we were on the hills at Grotewell; I could almost see the blue sky.”
“And I,” said he, with his eyes on her face.
“I am sure the brooks bubbled.”
“I distinctly heard a bird singing.”
“It was a whippowill.”
“But my name is Clarence?”
And here both being young and without a care in the world, they laughed again. And the crowded perfumed room seemed to freshen as with a whiff of mountain air.