The winner that day was Cornelius—Rosa came at nine.
She was without a lantern. She needed no longer a light as she could now read. Moreover, the light might betray her, as Jacob was dodging her steps more than ever. And, lastly, the light would have shown her blushes.
Of what did the young people speak that evening? Of those matters of which lovers speak at the house-doors in France, or from a balcony into the street in Spain; or down from a terrace into a garden in the East.
They spoke of those things which give wings to the hours; they spoke of everything except the black tulip.
At last, when the clock struck ten, they parted as usual.
Cornelius was happy, as thoroughly happy as a tulip-fancier would be, to whom one has not spoken about his tulip.
He found Rosa pretty, good, graceful, and charming.
But why did Rosa object to the tulip being spoken of?
This was indeed a great defect in Rosa.
Cornelius confessed to himself, sighing, that woman was not perfect.
Part of the night he thought of this imperfection; that is to say, as long as he was awake he thought of Rosa.
After having fallen asleep he dreamed of her.
But the Rosa of his dreams was by far more perfect than the Rosa of real life. Not only did the Rosa of his dreams speak of the tulip, but also brought to him a black one in a china vase.
Cornelius then awoke trembling with joy and muttering,—
