“Ah, but you see I’m not engaged to Dick,” said Helena gravely, holding out a wreath to him.
“No; but Zoe is. At least, if she is not now, she soon will be. But come, Helena, fasten this wreath round my hat.”
Helena obediently did so, and then placed it on her lover’s head, upon which he gave her a kiss, and insisted that she should deck herself with the remaining flowers. Nothing loath, Helena did so, and was shortly one mass of delicious bloom, from which her face peered out like some laughing Dryad. Rose-wreath on her golden head, green myrtle girding her slender waist, and flowers of myriad hues bedecking her dress, she looked indeed like Chloris, the goddess of flowers, to whom Maurice had so often compared her.
“Come, my dearest,” he said, taking her hand, “and I will lead the Spring down to the valley. We are not Maurice and Helena, but Florizel and Perdita, shepherd and shepherdess; so come, my dearest, adown the mountain.”
They walked slowly along, talking all kinds of charming nonsense, and laughing merrily, he rose-wreathed like an ancient Hellene, she decked, like a goddess of the spring, with delicate blossoms, and both full of mirth and joy and happiness, which bubbled from their lips in gushes of liquid song.
CHAPTER XVIII.
PUNIC FAITH.
’Tis difficult, when dealing with a knave,
To know what course of conduct to pursue,
Yet if to win the victory you crave,
Strict honesty you must perforce eschew;