“And you will win the victory, I am sure, just as you have won in everything else you have ever attempted,” said the beautiful girl, with shining eyes. “I wish you all success, and the next time we meet I shall expect to find you far on the road to fame.”
“Thanks,” said Clifford, flushing at her words. Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he questioned: “But are you contemplating leaving the country for an indefinite sojourn?”
“No, indeed; why?”
“Why, you know it takes many years to win fame, and it would be a matter of sincere regret to me if I thought our paths would not cross meantime.”
Gertrude laughed musically.
“It certainly will not take a great while for you, if you go on as you have begun, and are governed by the same principle and earnestness of purpose as when I last saw you,” she observed, with a look which told him that she still remembered their conversation on the piazza of the hotel in the mountains. “At all events, I hope it will not be years before we meet again. But au revoir, I must run away now, for my friends are waiting for me,” and with a charming smile and bow she was gone.
Philip Wentworth had withdrawn a short distance when Gertrude greeted his rival, whom he never recognized if he could avoid doing so, and his face was sullen and overcast when she rejoined him.
“Are you annoyed over having to wait for me?” she inquired, keenly sensitive to the change in his manner.
“I should not be annoyed to wait your pleasure any length of time under ordinary circumstances,” said Philip, with studied coldness.