But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold!’”
The girlish voice was like music above the smothered roar of many waters. As Irving listened and looked, he understood the warmth of Mrs. Bruce’s brief enthusiasm.
There was a pause, and the two feasted their eyes upon the glories before them.
“It is absurd that you shouldn’t go back to Boston with us,” said Irving at last.
“I’d much rather not, Mr. Bruce. I fear if Mr. Derwent had insisted on that, I should have rebelled. You are kind to take an interest—”
“An interest!” burst forth Irving, and arrested himself. He smiled. “Didn’t I pick you off that cliff a few minutes ago?”
She looked at him with an expression which nearly banished his self-control.
“We don’t hear much about man-angels,” she said, “but you looked like one to me at that moment—one of Botticelli’s—you know how ready they always look to scowl?”
She laughed softly.
“I was furious with you,” said Irving. “So remember I have part interest in you after this. Mr. Derwent is all very well, but—