“Now, listen, Clarine; if the son of Manuel Della Coscia asked my hand in marriage, I would give it to him as soon as to Count Napier.”
Old Manassa had been leaning upon the head of his heavy stick. It fell from his hands to the floor with a crash.
“Why, what was that?” he cried. “Didn’t I hear somebody talking? I thought I heard the name of Manuel Della Coscia.”
“Nonsense, Manassa!” cried Clarine. “You have been at your old trick of dreaming and then waking up and thinking your dream was real. Now, go right to sleep again. You cannot have your breakfast for an hour yet.”
“I am sure he heard everything that we have said,” Vivienne whispered in Clarine’s ear.
“Oh, no, he is always like that, but even if he did hear, I will convince him that he dreamt it.”
“Come into the garden, Clarine. I do not wish to say anything that can be overheard.”
At some distance from the house they sat upon a bench beneath the drooping branches of a tree which formed a natural arbour.
“I have something to tell you, Vivienne,” said Clarine. “I had a dream, too, last night, but there is a good thing about my dreams—they always come true—and it was about you.”
“My fate must have been pleasanter than it is likely to be,” said Vivienne, “judging from your manner.”