"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"
The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure—" she said. "I thought so."
"What is the point of the remark?"
She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy—if that were so,—I don't want to go!"
"How did your royal pride get turned about?—that you will look at none but a wooden horse?"
She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.
"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,—not yet. Besides, the horse—of whatever sort—will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,
Being in the air,
Will not care
How they fare!"—
Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.
"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months—though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."