“Jacomyn—that girl in the white dress. I wonder who made her. She looked just like you.”
“Ach, Adrian,—how can you joke so?”
“Jacomina,—she’s really just like you, only not half so pretty. I—I—I’d like to see you in a dress like that, Jacomina.”
“Ach, Adrian,—how can you talk like that? It’s only town girls that ever dress like that and then only—”
“But, Jacomyn,—when we get married you might buy that very dress and put it on. I—I—I wonder if they’d sell it. They might easily make another for the figure in the glass case.”
Jacomina sighed deeply, and looked down with an air of mingled dejection and confusion.
“That dress will be old before I will want it,” she said.
“How can you talk like that? Why, I want you to put a dress like that on very soon.”
Jacomina sighed deeply and did not speak for a while. Then she sadly said—raising, as she spoke, her eyes to Adrian’s emotion-lit face:
“I know that my father will go to live at the old place as soon as we return, and it will be years and years before he will ever come to Cape Town again. No, Adrian,—you had better forget me, and look out for some girl whose father will be able to bring her to Cape Town soon. I do not want you to be bound to one who may have to keep you waiting such a long, long time.”