“May I go with you?” asked he, half timidly.
“Yes, if you like.”
“And your book,—what was it?”
“Oh, a charming book,—such a delightful story! So many people one would have loved to know!—such scenes one would have loved to visit!—incidents, too, that keep the heart in intense anxiety, that you wonder how he who imagined them could have sustained the thrilling interest, and held his own heart so long in terrible suspense!”
“And the name of this wonderful book is—”
“'Waverley.'”
“I have read it,” said he, coldly.
“And have you not longed to be a soldier? Has not your heart bounded with eagerness for a life of adventure and peril?”
“I am a soldier,” said he, quietly.
“Indeed!” replied she, slowly, while her steadfast glance scanned him calmly and deliberately.