“Thanks for your consideration of my happiness, Miss Carrover,” I said, bowing, while my heart fluttered with pleasant surprise to hear her speak so. “Time always seems to be running a race when I am with you. The moments fly by only too swiftly when we are with those we—er—” A good spur and a rearing horse are first rate reliefs for embarrassment when we hesitate for a word; at least I found them so that afternoon.
She did not make any remark in some time, and I continued:
“You must be very unselfish, Miss Carrover, to confer so much pleasure on those who visit you, and receive so little in return.”
“Oh no, indeed,” she replied, tapping Phlegon on the ear with her whip, “it is a very great pleasure to me to meet and converse with friends, such as I believe you are, Mr. Smith.”
“Indeed I am not your friend, Miss Carrover,” I said, grasping my reins very tight, and gaining courage from the grasp; “a nearer, fonder word than friendship must express my feelings for you.”
“No, really?” she said, with that matchless arch of her eyebrows, looking me full in the face.
When a kettle is about to boil over, add a few drops of cold water, and it subsides without another bubble. These two words were like ice to my heart’s fervor, and we rode a long way in silence, I combing out my horse’s mane with my fingers, she humming the fragments of a song, and flecking off specks of dust from her skirt with her whip.
When she spoke she changed the subject, and I had scarcely courage to speak of the beauties of Nature for the remainder of the ride.
When we returned I gave up the horses to Reuben at the gate, and, bidding Miss Carrover good evening, walked towards my room meditating.