“Of you mostly.”
“Have you? I’m glad. I wanted you to think of me today.”
“Why today?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“No!”
She nodded.
“How old?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one!”
It seemed rather sad. Twenty-one is a great birthday. Had she been an earl’s daughter there would have been laughter and dancing in the hall that night—white flowers and scarlet in happy clusters everywhere. There would have been pearls from her father, and a dream dress to wear. Wax candles would have glittered the silver on the board, and pink-coated huntsmen would have led her to the dance.