“You had a white bouquet?”
“Oh—I had so many—this beautiful one—all roses,” said Violante, trying, in her heightened spirits, this elementary piece of coquetting.
“Too many to count?”
“Oh, yes—quite too many. There were three red ones and this—all colours—and one white.”
She looked at Hugh, seized with a sudden fear. Perhaps he had not thrown the white one, after all!
“Your trophies, Mademoiselle Mattei. Were you very proud of them as you were counting the spoils?” said the equally foolish Hugh, as he thought: “Of course, she does care for it, after all.”
Violante blushed intensely and her lips quivered.
“I like the flowers,” she said.
“And the applause?” said Hugh, jealously. “Don’t you know you had a great triumph? We shall all boast of your acquaintance.” Violante bent her head low, her lashes heavy and wet.
“Still, you don’t like it,” cried Hugh; and suddenly the tones were tender. “Does it still frighten you so much, Violante?”