“Simply thus,” resumed she. “As I continued to mark and read of your great career in life, the marvellous successes which met you in each new enterprise, how with advancing fortune you ever showed yourself equal to the demand made upon your genius, I thought with shame and humiliation over even my childish follies, how often I must have grieved—have hurt you! Over and over have I said, 'Does he ever remember? Can he forgive me?' And yet there was a sense of exquisite pleasure in the midst of all my sorrow as I thought over all these childish vanities, and said to myself, 'This man, whom all are now flattering and fawning upon, was the same I used to irritate with my caprices, and worry with my whims!'”
“I never dreamed that you remembered me,” said he, in a voice tremulous with delight.
“Your career made a romance for me,” said she, eagerly. “I could repeat many of those vigorous speeches you made,—those spirited addresses. One, in particular, I remember well; it was when refusing the offer of the Athlone burgesses to represent their town; you alluded so happily to the cares which occupied you,—less striking than legislative duties, but not less important,—or, as you phrased it, yours was like the part of those 'who sound the depth and buoy the course that thundering three-deckers are to follow.' Do you remember the passage? And again, that proud humility with which, alluding to the wants of the poor, you said, 'I, who have carried my musket in the ranks of the people!' Let me tell you, sir,” added she, playfully, “these are very haughty avowals, after all, and savor just as much of personal pride as the insolent declarations of many a pampered courtier!”
Dunn's face grew crimson, and his chest swelled with an emotion of intense delight.
“Shall I own to you,” continued she, still running on with what seemed an irrepressible freedom, “that it appears scarcely real to me to be here talking to you about yourself, and your grand enterprises, and your immense speculations. You have been so long to my mind the great genius of wondrous achievements, that I cannot yet comprehend the condescension of your strolling along here as if this world could spare you.”
If Dunn did not speak, it was that his heart was too full for words; but he pressed the round arm that leaned upon him closer to his side, and felt a thrill of happiness through him.
“By the way,” said she, after a pause, “I have a favor to ask of you: papa would be charmed to have a cast of Marochetti's bust of you, and yet does not like to ask for it. May I venture—”
“Too great an honor to me,” muttered Dunn. “Would you—I mean, would he—accept—”
“Yes, I will, and with gratitude; not but I think the likeness hard and harsh. It is, very probably, what you are to that marvellous world of politicians and financiers you live amongst, but not such as your friends recognize you,—what you are to-day, for instance.”
“And what may that be,” asked he, playfully.