“I am sure she would,” said Garde, readily enough.
“Are you, though? One would think you knew her,” said Adam. “Don’t plume yourself on this matter so prematurely. Come, let us start.”
“One moment, please, till I can tie my shoe,” said Garde, who felt such merriment bubbling up in her heart that she was constrained to bend downward to the ground quickly, to hide her smiles.
Adam stood waiting, glancing around at the woods, wondering which way his heart had flown, on its lightsome wings, in that temple of beauty. Garde looked up at him slyly. He was dressed in great brown boots, that came above his knees, brown velvet trousers, a wine-colored velvet coat, with a leather jerkin over it, sleeveless and long enough to reach to the tops of his boots, almost, and on his head he wore a large slouch hat, becoming and finishing to his striking figure.
Garde was looking at the back of his head rapturously when he started to turn, to see why she made the tying process so deliberate.
“I am ready,” she said, cheerily, springing to her feet. “Is this the road?”
“By all the promptings of my heart, it is,” said Adam. “But, by the way, you have not yet told me your name, my boy.”
“Oh,—why—why my name is—John Rosella.” She had thought of her aunt’s first name, on the spur of the moment, and John had been the simplest and first thing which had popped into her head.
“John Rosella,” repeated Adam. “It sounds like Spanish. That would account for your dark complexion.” He looked at her critically. “Yes, you are a nice, gentle boy. Have you ever been in love?”
“With—with a girl? never!” said Garde, trembling with delight and fear of being detected, especially if she answered too many questions. “Do tell me all about your lady—lady love.”