Helena’s dark eyes looked very earnestly at the bright face among the leaves, and she asked, in a slower and more thoughtful tone:
“Is Mr. Tartar with you now, dear?”
“No; because he has given up his rooms to me—to us, I mean. It is such a beautiful place!”
“Is it?”
“It is like the inside of the most exquisite ship that ever sailed. It is like—it is like—”
“Like a dream?” suggested Helena.
Rosa answered with a little nod, and smelled the flowers.
Helena resumed, after a short pause of silence, during which she seemed (or it was Rosa’s fancy) to compassionate somebody: “My poor Neville is reading in his own room, the sun being so very bright on this side just now. I think he had better not know that you are so near.”
“O, I