She talked of Valentine more than ever now, feeling herself at liberty to
sing what paeans she pleased in praise of her hero, now that her friend
had also a fitting subject for paeans.
"And now it's your turn to talk of M. Lenoble, dear," she would say
naively, when she had entertained Diana with the minute details of her
last conversation with her lover, or a lively sketch of the delights of
that ideal cottage which she loved to furnish and unfurnish in accordance
with the new fancy of the hour.
Diana was pleased to listen to her girlish talk: to hang and rehang the
ideal draperies, to fill and refill the ideal bookcase, to plan and
replan the arrangements of that ideal existence which was to be all joy
and love and harmony; but when her turn came, and she was asked to be
rapturous about her own lover, she could say nothing: that which she felt
was too deep for words. The thought of her lover was strange to her; the
fact of his love was mysterious and wonderful. She could not talk of him
with the customary frivolous school-girl talk; and love for him had so
newly taken root in her heart that there were as yet no blossoms to be
gathered from that magical plant.
"Don't ask me to talk of him, Lotta, dear;" she said. "I am not yet sure
that I love him; I only feel that it is sweet to be loved by him. I think
Providence must have sent him to me in pity for my desolation.
Pages:
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243