“Is it necessary? I believe all I came for was to look after you, Sweetheart. Of course,” hurriedly, “my mother was anxious. I suppose I can go away now?”
“Certainly not”—the frank eyes dilated widely. “You promised Miss Bentley, you know, and she—all of us—put on our prettiest morning-dresses. You must go to her at once,” with pretty imperiousness.
But she stopped, plucked a rosebud from her belt, and put it in his button-hole.
“Wear my colors this once,” she said, with a daring that yet did not seem like boldness, only pretty child’s play.
“If I could believe she meant anything!” he thought, vaguely, as he walked by her side along the beautiful avenue shaded by orange-trees, whose globes of golden fruit hung pendant from the trees.
She walked on demurely, thinking daintily in verse:
“Ah, happy rose,
Blest that you rise and fall upon his breast,
Whisper him soft of love,
All earthly joys above,