"In another quarter of an hour," she thought, "perhaps I shall be engaged."
It seemed quite terrible--almost incredible. And how should she conduct herself in this trying ordeal?
"I must not just fall into his arms," thought she, "so that he will think me crude in everything, and misunderstand me again."
She decided to cut a handful of roses. Instead of the usual "Good morning," she would greet him with these and a look that should say, "Take them, beloved. All is yours--all." She selected deep-crimson blooms, full grown with a wealth of curving petals. Each one would speak of love to him--of that wild, entrancing love of which poets sang so beautifully, from whose kisses one drank either eternal bliss or damnation. Nothing pale or faded should have a place in her bouquet.
But she did not adorn herself with a rose. Was he not to be for always the one and only ornament of her life?
Leo, the dog, trotted meanwhile behind her well satisfied, now and then rubbing his nose lovingly against her sleeve.
"Where is your master?" she asked him, with a sigh.
The beast looked up in her face with comprehending, melancholy eyes. For hours, since daybreak, he had been looking for him everywhere, but he had ridden off on a secret mission without asking his faithful friend to bear him company.
As she ascended the steps of the terrace grandmamma came to meet her.
She caught hold of the balustrade, trembling. What if he had already confided the news to his mother? Was she coming before her with a heart whose secret had been laid bare? She ran to her quickly, and hid her head on her breast so that she shouldn't be looked at.