Mademoiselle Violet looked at him thoughtfully.
“I should not make any promises,” she said demurely, “but things would certainly be different.”
The young man’s blood was stirred. Mademoiselle Violet stood to him for the whole wonderful world of romance, into which he had peered dimly from behind the counter of an Islington emporium. Her low voice—so strange to his ears after the shrill chatter of the young ladies of his acquaintance—the mystery of her coming and going, all went to give color to the single dream of his unimaginative life. Apart from her, he was a somewhat vulgar, entirely commonplace young man, of saving habits, and with some aptitude for business, in a small way. He had been well on his way to becoming a small but successful shopkeeper, thereby realizing the only ideals which had yet presented themselves to him, when Madame Violet had unconsciously intervened. Of what might become of him now he had no clear conception of himself.
“I’ll go!” he declared.
Mademoiselle Violet’s eyes flashed behind her veil. Her fingers touched his for a moment.
“It is a long way,” she said.
“I don’t care,” he answered valiantly.
“To—America!”
“America!” he gasped. “But—is this a joke, Miss Violet?”
She shook her head.