“My soul is a blackened grate of burnt-out fires, of which only a coal remains.”
And the king turned in his seat and looked across the crisp green lawns to the beds of flowers, where, followed by a maid at a respectful distance, a slim young girl in white was cutting the hardy geraniums, dahlias and seed poppies.
“God knows what her legacy will be!”
“It is for you to make it, Sire.”
Both men continued to remark the girl. At length she came toward them, her arms laden with flowers. She was at the age of ten, with a beautiful, serious face, which some might have called prophetic. Her hair was dark, shining like coal and purple, and gossamer in its fineness; her skin had the blue-whiteness of milk; while from under long black lashes two luminous brown eyes looked thoughtfully at the world. She smiled at the king, who eyed her fondly, and gave her unengaged hand to the Englishman, who kissed it.
“And how is your Royal Highness this fine day? he asked, patting the hand before letting it go.
“Will you have a dahlia, Monsieur?” With a grave air she selected a flower and slipped it through his button-hole.
“Does your Highness know the language of the flowers?” the Englishman asked.
“Dahlias signify dignity and elegance; you are dignified, Monsieur, and dignity is elegance.”
“Well!” cried the Englishman, smiling with pleasure; “that is turned as adroitly as a woman of thirty.”