"I think we had better go," murmured Belle-bouche, rising; "I have to fix for the ball——"
"Not before——!"
"No, not before Tuesday, I believe," said Belle-bouche; "I am glad they changed it from Monday."
Jacques drew back, sighing; but returning to the attack, said in an expiring voice:
"What will my Flora wear—lace and flowers?"
"Who is she?" said Belle-bouche, putting on her light chip hat and tying the ribbon beneath her dimpled chin.
Poor Jacques was for a moment so completely absorbed by this lovely picture, that he did not reply.
"Who is Flora!—can you ask?" he stammered.
"Oh, yes!" said Belle-bouche, blushing; "you mean Philippa, do you not? But I can't tell you what she will wear. She has returned home. Let us go back through the orchard."
And Belle-bouche, with that exquisite grace which characterized her, crossed the log and stood upon the opposite bank of the brook, looking coquettishly over her shoulder at the melancholy Jacques, who was so absorbed in gazing after her that he had scarcely presence of mind enough to follow.