When she ran toward him under the bare trees of the orchard, he would have been quite justified, by the manners of the day, in giving this handsome lass a rousing smack on the cheek. Instead, he kissed her hand as if she had been a court lady, which ought to have pleased Bess, but did not.
“And I need not ask you how you are, dear Bess. I see for myself happiness and prosperity writ in your face,” he said to her warmly.
“I have prospered truly,” replied Bess, “and I have come to St. Germains now to sing in the chapel for the good Queen. Whenever I have the honor to sing before any great French people, I come out to St. Germains and take my place in the chapel choir, to sing for my own King and Queen; and I tell you, as should not, Roger, that the singers all leave me the solo parts. But you are changed—and yet—”
“Improved?” asked Roger, smiling.
“No; I cannot think anything an improvement on the first friend I ever had,—the first gentleman who ever spoke a decent word to me. You have become a soldier, though.”
“Yes; I am now Major Egremont. One or two more campaigns, and I shall be a lieutenant-colonel.”
“And have you seen Mr. Dicky?”
“Not yet. I am but just come. I slept last night at Verneuil.”
“You should see him—a personable lad. And why should I call him a lad? he is every day of three-and-twenty, and will soon be ordained a popish priest. He has it in his head to go back to England, and you ought to dissuade him; indeed you should, Roger, because you know that means death.”
“Not I, Bess. My cousin Dicky is a man, and to dissuade a man from his duty because he may have to die for it, is no way of mine.”