"But, Claude," she inquired eagerly, "why need we elope? Why not ask Lady Vaughan if we can be married? She might say 'Yes.'"
"She would not; I know better than you. She would refuse, and you would be carried off on Thursday, whether you liked it or not. If we are to be married at all we must elope—there is no help for it."
The young girl did not at once consent, although the novelty, the romance, the promised happiness, tempted her as a promised journey pleases a child.
"Think it over to-night," he said, "and let me know to-morrow."
"How can I let you know?" she asked. "I shall be in prison all day; it is not often that I have an hour like this. I shall not be able to see you."
"Perhaps not, but you can give me some signal. You have charge of the flowers in the great western window?"
"Yes, I change them at my pleasure every day."
"Then, if after thinking the matter over, you decide in my favor, and choose a lifetime of happiness, put white roses—nothing but white roses—there; if, on the contrary, you are inclined to follow up a life of unendurable ennui, put crimson flowers there. I shall understand—the white roses will mean 'Yes; I will go;' the crimson flowers will mean 'No; good-by, Claude.' You will not forget, Cynthy."
"It is not likely that I shall forget," she replied.
"You need not have one fear for the future; you will be happy as a queen. I shall love you so dearly; we will enjoy life as it is meant to be enjoyed. It was never intended for you to dream away your existence in one long sleep. Your beautiful face was meant to brighten and gladden men's hearts; your sweet voice to rule them. You are buried alive here."