“Me?” The voice did not sound to Virginia like her own. Was she too, dreaming? Were they both in a dream?
“He wishes to marry you.”
All the letters dropped from Virginia’s lap, dropped, and fluttered to the grass slowly, like falling rose leaves. Scarcely knowing what she did, she clasped her hands over the young bosom shaken with the sudden throbbing of her heart. Perhaps such a betrayal of feeling by a Royal maiden decorously sued (by proxy) for her hand, was scarcely correct; but Virginia had no thought for rules of conduct, as laid down for her too often by her mother.
“He wishes to marry—me?” she echoed, dazedly. “Why?”
“Providence must have drawn your inclination toward him, dearest. It is indeed a romance. Some day, no doubt, it will be told to the world in history.”
“But how did he—” Virginia broke off, and began again: “Did he tell this to Dal, and ask him to write you?”
“Not—not precisely that,” admitted the Grand Duchess, her face changing from satisfaction to uneasiness. For Virginia was difficult in some ways, though adorable in others, and held such peculiar ideas about life—inherited from her American grandmother—that it was impossible to be sure how she would receive the most ordinary announcements.
The Princess’s rapt expression faded, like the passing of dawn.
“Not precisely that?” she repeated. “Then what—how—”
“Well, perhaps—though it’s not strictly the correct thing—you had better read your brother’s letter for yourself.”