Floy did not answer a word; she listened attentively, thinking how sweet and musical his voice sounded, and how sorry she was that this charming drive would soon be over. She could have gone on, and on, and on with him forever.
But the cross driver, not sharing her predilections, swore at his horses and whipped them up impatiently, while Beresford added:
“The telegram drove everything else out of my mind until I retired, when I fell asleep and dreamed of you.”
CHAPTER X.
“SLEEPING, I DREAMED, LOVE!”
“I dreamed of you,” repeated Beresford, bending lower over the girl until her fragrant breath floated up to him, and the magnetism of her nearness enveloped him in an atmosphere of passionate bliss. “I dreamed, little Floy, that you and I were alone together, walking in the most beautiful rose garden in the world.”
“Oh!” cried Floy, with a delicious start, throwing up her little hands.
Beresford caught one of them in his and held it tenderly, as if it had been a little trembling white bird, as he went on softly:
“Words are too weak to describe the beauties of that spot.”
“I can imagine it,” thought Floy, recalling her own dream of roses.