The gleam strengthened into steady brightness, and when Alys found herself, wrapped in the most becoming of attires, velvet and furs, seated beside her brother in a very luxurious carriage, behind two very respectable horses, the young lady began to feel that it might have been very possible to enjoy herself, if only the fine weather had been quicker of coming. It was a little—just the very least little bit in the world—provoking that now, just as it had come, Laurence should make up his mind that they must go.
She looked at him doubtfully as the thought crossed her mind. The sunshine did not seem to have any exhilarating effect upon him; he looked dull and more careworn than since they had been in Paris.
“Laurence,” she said, hesitatingly, “I suppose you have quite made up your mind to leave on Friday?”
“Quite,” he said, gently. “Are you beginning to regret it?”
“A little; it is nice when it is fine, isn’t it? Paris forgets the rain so quickly.”
“Paris forgets all disagreeable experiences far too quickly.”
Alys gave a little shiver.
“Oh, please don’t put revolutions, and barricades, and guillotines in my head, Laurence,” she said, beseechingly. “Even the names of the streets are associated with them, if one begins thinking of such things. One must do at Rome as the Romans do, so let me be thoughtless in Paris.”
“Still, on the whole, you prefer England. You would not like to marry a Frenchman, would you, Alys?”
“Of course not,” replied Alys, “and of all things I would not like to be married in the French way, hardly knowing anything about the man I was to marry. Ermengarde de Tarannes, Laurence, that pretty girl whom we saw at the Embassy, is to be married to a Marquis something or other, Mrs Brabazon told me, whom she has really only seen three times, for he is now in Italy, and will only return the week before the marriage. Fancy how horrible!”