When the carriage Tredennis had ordered came to the door, at ten o'clock, the coupé which was to convey Bertha to the scene of her first triumphs had just driven up.
A few seconds later Bertha turned from her mirror and took up her bouquet of white rose-buds and heliotrope, as a servant knocked at the door.
"The carriage is here, miss," he said; "and Mr. Tredennis is going away, and says would you come and let him say good-by."
In a few seconds more, Tredennis, who was standing in the hall, looked up from the carpet and saw her coming down the staircase with a little run, her white dress a cloud about her, her eyes shining like stars, the rose and heliotrope bouquet he had sent her in her hand.
"Thank you for it," she said, as soon as she reached him. "I shall keep this, too; and see what I have done." And she pushed a leaf aside and showed him a faded sprig of heliotrope hidden among the fresh flowers. "I thought I would like to have a little piece of it among the rest," she said. And she gave him her hand, with a smile both soft and bright.
"And you really kept it?" he said.
"Oh, yes," she answered, simply. "You know I am going to keep it as long as I live. I wish we could keep you. I wish you were going with us."
"I am going in a different direction," he said; "and"—suddenly, "I have not a minute to spare. Good-by."
A little shadow fell on the brightness of her face.
"I wish there was no such word as 'good-by,'" she said.