Some were very sad and tender—some seemed to have poured straight from Ronald's heart into her own. It seemed as if he had written them for her—for her only.
She became quite lost in them, and oblivious to everything else; she did not hear the professor steal out and close the door gently behind him. The outer world had no place in her thoughts for awhile.
She started when a hand was laid upon her head, and looked up with a cry, but it was only the old professor's wife, who was like a mother to her.
"Oh, forgive me, darling," said the sweet old lady; "I did not mean to startle you. But only look at these flowers!"
She put a bouquet into the prima donna's hand—an exquisite collection of rare and odorous flowers. There was not a scentless leaf or flower in the bouquet. The delicate, living fragrance floated deliciously through the room.
"He sent them—the author of the opera himself," cried Mrs. Professor, delightedly. "He is coming with the manager to call on you this afternoon."
"Very well," said Madam Dolores, resignedly. "Chere maman, please tell my maid to put the flowers in water, and call me when it's time to dress."
"Why, my dear, it's time now, this minute. You have been lost in that book for hours! Twice I looked into the room, and went out again because you were so absorbed I hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now, really, there isn't another minute to lose. I've told Fanchette to lay out a handsome dress for you—and, dear, I think it would be a graceful compliment to the author to wear a few of these flowers in your hair."
"Very well," said Madam Dolores again, as she rose and passed into the dressing-room, still clasping the precious book in her hand.
"What will madame wear?" inquired the trim French maid.