So she sat with her flowers upon her knee and talked, and it was an enchanted hour for Tredennis, who felt like a creature slowly awakening to the light of day.
"I suppose we may not see you again for several years," she said. "I do not like to think of that, and I am sure papa won't, but"—and she turned, smiling into his eyes, her chin resting in the hollow of her palm, her elbow on her knee—"when we do see you, of course you will be a most distinguished person, entirely covered with stars and ribbons and—scalps!"
"And you," he said; "I wonder what will have happened to you?"
"Oh, a great many things, of course," she answered; "but only the unimportant things that happen to all girls—though they will be important enough to me. I dare say I shall have had a lovely time, and have been very happy."
And she turned her little smile upon the fire and brooded for a few seconds—still in her pretty attitude.
It was such a pretty attitude and her look was so sweet that both together wrought upon Tredennis strongly, and he felt himself awakening a little more.
"I wish," he said, breaking the brief silence in a low voice,—"I wish that I could insure the—happiness for you."
She turned, with a slight start, and some vague trouble in her face.
"Oh!" she said, "don't you think I shall be sure to be happy? There seems to be no reason why I should not. Oh, I hope I shall be happy; I—I don't know what I should do if I wasn't happy! I can't imagine it."
"Everybody is not happy," he said, his voice almost tremulous.