Had she been more experienced or less preoccupied, she must have learned the truth from his changing colour, his faltering step, his awkward address, to all others so quiet, graceful, and polite. She was thinking of George, she was low-spirited and unhappy. Florian’s society was a change and a distraction. She welcomed him with a kind greeting and a bewitching smile.
The more anxious men are to broach an interesting subject, the more surely do they approach it by a circuitous route. Florian asked half a dozen questions concerning the budding, grafting, and production of roses in general, before he dared approach the topic nearest his heart. Cerise answered good-humouredly, and became more cheerful under the influence of fresh air, a gleam of sun, and the scent of her favourite flowers.
Bending sedulously over an especial treasure, she did not remark how long a silence was preserved by her companion, though rising she could not fail to observe the agitation of his looks nor the shaking hands with which he strove to assist her in a task already done.
“These are very late roses,” said he, in a tone strangely earnest for the enunciation of so simple a remark. “There are still half a dozen more buds to blow, and winter has already arrived.”
“That’s why I am so fond of them,” she replied. “Winter comes too early both in the garden and in the house. I like to keep my flowers as long as I can, and my illusions too.”
She sighed while she spoke, and Florian, looking tenderly in her face, noticed its air of languor and despondency. A wild, mad hope shot through his heart, and coming close to her side, he resumed—
“It will be a week at least before this green bud blows, and in a week, Lady Hamilton, I shall be gone.”
“So soon?” she said, in a low, tender voice, modulated to sadness by thoughts of her own in no way connected with his approaching departure. “I had hoped you would stay with us the whole winter, Monsieur de St. Croix. We shall miss you dreadfully.”
“I shall be gone,” he repeated, mournfully, “and a man in my position can less control his own movements than a wisp of seaweed on the wave. In a day or two, perhaps in a few hours, I must wish you good-bye, and—and—it is more than probable that I shall never see you again.”