“Pretty well; this rain is bad for him; he may not go out,” said Alvar, who did not wish to represent Cheriton as specially unwell just then. “But see, mi querida, I have been talking to my father, and he gives me courage to speak of the future.” And then in the most deferential manner Alvar unfolded his plans, ending by saying,—
“And will you come with me to Seville that I may show my English bride to my countrymen, and teach them what flowers grow in England?”
“I would rather go to Spain than anywhere else,” said Virginia, all misgivings gone. “I hope they will—like me.”
“Ah,” said Alvar, smiling, “there is no fear. They would not like those boys—but you—they would worship!”
Virginia laughed gaily, and he continued presently, touching the bow on her dress,—“But this ribbon—it is not a pretty colour. I am rude, but I do not like it.”
“Oh, Alvar, I am very sorry. Ruth said I ought to change it. I thought you would not come, and I didn’t care for my ribbons. I do not care—except when you see me.”
There was a break in her voice as she looked at Alvar with eyes full of pathetic appeal for a response to the love she gave him.
Alvar smiled tenderly.
“We will soon change it,” he said, and, opening the glass door again, he picked two crimson roses that climbed over it, shook the rain-drops carefully from their petals, and then fastened them into Virginia’s hair and dress. “There!” he said, “that is the royal colour, the colour for my queen. See, I must have a share of it. Give me the rosebud.”
Virginia stood for a moment with her eyes cast down. She could have thrown herself into Alvar’s arms, and poured forth her feelings with a fervour of expression that might have startled him, but the doubt and timidity which she had never lost towards him restrained her; she put the rose into his coat and was happy. The sun came out through the clouds, they strolled through the garden together, and Alvar talked to her about Spain, his stately old grandfather, his many cousins, and all the surroundings of his old life.