"That will change," said Frederick. "We must never despair."
She returned:
"We must never despair!"
This automatic repetition of the phrase he had used appeared to him a sort of encouragement; he plucked a rose, the only one in the garden.
"Do you remember a certain bouquet of roses one evening, in a carriage?"
She coloured a little; and, with an air of bantering pity:
"Ah, I was very young then!"
"And this one," went on Frederick, in a low tone, "will it be the same way with it?"
She replied, while turning about the stem between her fingers, like the thread of a spindle:
"No, I will preserve it."