"To the mountains of the moon, sir," rejoined the philosopher lightly, "or along the milky way to the land of the Might-Have-Been."
"Before we part, sir, may I shake you by the hand?"
There was silence down below after that. Gilda listened in vain, no further words reached her ears just then. She tiptoed as quietly as she could across the room, finding her way with difficulty in the dark. At last her fumbling fingers encountered the latch of the door of the inner room where Maria lay snoring lustily.
It took Gilda some little time to wake the old woman, but at last she succeeded, and then ordered her, very peremptorily, to strike a light.
"Are you ill, mejuffrouw?" queried Maria anxiously even though she was but half awake.
"No," replied Gilda curtly, "but I want my dress—quick now," she added, for Maria showed signs of desiring to protest.
The jongejuffrouw was in one of those former imperious moods of hers when she exacted implicit obedience from her servants. Alas! the last few days had seen that mood submerged into an ocean of sorrow and humiliation, and Maria—though angered at having been wakened out of a first sleep—was very glad to see her darling looking so alert and so brisk.
Indeed—the light being very dim—Maria could not see the brilliant glow that lit up the jongejuffrouw's cheeks as with somewhat febrile gestures she put on her dress and smoothed her hair.
"Now put on your dress too, Maria," she said when she was ready, "and tell my father, who is either in the tap-room down below or hath already retired to his room, that I desire to speak with him."
And Maria, bewildered and flustered, had no option but to obey.