"See to it that you don't get hold of any and leave me behind! But let us not talk about parting: that word would make the heavens weep!"
"What! who has any idea of such a thing? Don't say that ghastly word again!"
"No, no! let's not think of it!" he cried, springing suddenly to his feet.
"What's the matter, and where are you going?" she said.
"I don't know," he replied. "Ah! by the way——There's an extraordinary echo here, and the last time I came here with little—you don't care to know her name, do you? I enjoyed listening to it here, while she sang on yonder little hillock, just opposite us."
Thérèse made no reply. He saw that this unseasonable evocation of one of his undesirable acquaintances was not a very delicate contribution to the joys of a romantic midnight expedition with the queen of his heart. Why had it come into his head? how was it that the name of some foolish virgin or other had come to his lips? He was mortified by his blunder; but, instead of ingenuously blaming himself for it and wooing oblivion by torrents of loving words which he was quite capable of pouring forth when passion inspired his heart, he determined to brazen it out, and asked Thérèse if she would sing for him.
"I could not do it," she replied, gently. "It is a long while since I have ridden, and it has made me a little oppressed."
"If it is only a little, make an effort, Thérèse; it will give me so much pleasure!"
Thérèse was too proud to be angry, she was only grieved. She turned her face away, and pretended to cough.
"Well, well," said he, laughingly, "you are only a poor weak woman! And then you don't believe in my echo, I can see that. I propose that you shall hear it. Stay here. I will climb up to the top of the hill. You are not afraid to remain alone for five minutes, I trust?"