One afternoon, the second Tuesday of their acquaintance, after they had sat some time at the lodge in silence, Dick gazing pensively at the green space before him, he let his thought take the form of speech:
"After all, when you are eighteen I shall be only twenty-six."
"That will be seven years from now," she said, lightly. "Seven years is a very long time."
"So much the better. It gives a man like me time to attain a position worthy of a woman like you."
"Oh, position, rank, and that sort of thing, what are they, after all? Have you heard what the Empress of Russia said to Monsieur Diderot? You know that by devoting himself to the encyclopædia, Monsieur Diderot has kept himself poor, and his threadbare coat is no affectation. Well, Catherine II., aware of this, and appreciating the great sacrifice made in the interest of knowledge, bought Monsieur Diderot's library at a fine price, and then ordered it left in Paris, and appointed him her librarian to take care of it. Monsieur Diderot went to St. Petersburg four years ago, to thank her in person, and while he was there Catherine and he got into many disputes on questions of philosophy. One day Diderot hinted that he was at a disadvantage in arguing with the Empress of all the Russias. 'Nonsense,' said Catherine, 'is there any difference between men?'"
Dick sighed, perceiving that she had sought to divert him from the topic he had broached. He rowed back to St. Denis that evening an unmistakably love-sick youth. He could hardly wait for the next afternoon, that he might renew the subject at any hazard.
On the morrow, to his dismay, the sky was dark, and chill winds were blowing. Spring, having thrust her sunny face in at the door too soon, had been frightened far away, and might never have been present, so different was to-day's world from yesterday's. Dick resolved, nevertheless, to make his usual voyage.
Rain had already begun to fall on the agitated surface of the river, when he landed at the park. He hastened to the lodge and found it empty. How bleak and utterly forlorn the place now seemed! How disconsolate in heart was Dick! Well, he ought not to have expected her on such a day. He gazed with a heavy sigh at the spot where she usually sat.
What was that white thing, lying under a pebble, on that very spot? Dick seized it eagerly, saw the name "Silvius" written on it, opened it out hastily with trembling fingers. It was indeed a note, written in a charming hand, and signed "Amaryllis." His disappointment turned to gladness,—for the first sight of the beloved's handwriting, addressed to oneself, is as good as an interview,—and he read:
"For a few days I must be away, yet Silvius will come as usual to the lodge, will he not? On the day of her return, he will find Amaryllis waiting. Since I last saw Silvius I have been thinking. It is true, seven years is not a very long time!"