‘And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will go right. I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you unhappy to-night. I shall think of it when you are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It was so wicked, so very, very wicked; and he was so good.’
‘Gone! what a dreadful word! And shall we not be together to-morrow, Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for a moment escape from your memory.’
‘Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly where you will be at every hour; write to me on the road; if it be only a line, only a little word; only his dear name; only Ferdinand!’
‘And how shall I write to you? Shall I direct to you here?’
Henrietta looked perplexed. ‘Papa opens the bag every morning, and every morning you must write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be done’?’
‘I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send for your letters.’
‘I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look so—so—so—clandestine.’
‘I will direct them to your maid. She must be our confidante.’
‘Ferdinand!’
‘’Tis only for a week.’