"If I were the autocrat of Russia I would certainly exercise the right of banishment," he answered quietly.
During this sportive encounter, Mr. Regulus came up to greet me. I had not seen him since our memorable interview in the academy, and his sallow face glowed with embarrassment. I rose to meet him, anxious to show him every mark of respect and esteem. I asked him to take a seat on the sofa by me, and ventured to congratulate him on the exceedingly entertaining acquaintance he had made.
"A very extraordinary young lady," he cried, "amazingly merry, and somewhat bold. I had not the most remote idea of coming here, when I left home; but suddenly I found her arm linked in mine, and was told that I must escort her nolens volens."
"Indeed! I thought you came to inquire after my health, and was feeling so grateful!"
"I did not know I should have the pleasure of seeing you, and I did not hope you would welcome me with so much cordiality. I have made many inquiries after you; indeed, I have scarcely thought of any thing else since you were ill. You look pale, Gabriella. Are you sure you are quite well, my child?"
The old endearing epithet! It touched me.
"I do not feel strong enough to move Mount Atlas, but well enough to enjoy the society of my friends. I never appreciated it so highly before."
"You have no idea how I miss you," he said, taking my fan and drawing his thumb over it, as if he were feeling the edge of his ferula. "The season of summer lingers, but the flowers no longer bloom for me. The birds sing, but their notes have lost their melody. My perception of the beautiful has grown dim, but the remembrance of it can never fade. I never knew before what the pleasures of memory truly were."
"I recollect a copy you once set me, Mr. Regulus,—'Sweet is the memory of absent friends,'—I thought it such a charming one!"
"Do you remember that?" he asked, with a delighted countenance.