"To think of picnicking in the midst of Washington Street!" cried Nora, with her lips besprinkled with flakes of pastry.
"For a young lady about to leave her native land, her home, and friends, and all that is dear to her," said Hubert, "you seem to me in very good spirits."
"Don't speak of it," said Nora. "I shall cry tonight; it is feverish gayety."
"You will not be able to do this kind of thing abroad," said Hubert. "Do you know we are monstrously improper? For a young girl it 's by no means pure gain, going to Europe. She comes into a very pretty heritage of prohibitions. You have no idea of the number of improper things a young girl can do. You are walking on the edge of a precipice. Don't look over or you will lose your head and never walk straight again. Here, you are all blindfold. Promise me not to lose this blessed bandage of American innocence. Promise me that, when you come back, we shall spend another morning together as free and delightful as this one!"
"I promise you!" said Nora; but Hubert's words had potently foreshadowed the forfeiture of sweet possibilities. For the rest of the drive she was in a graver mood. They found Roger beneath the portico of the hotel, watch in hand, staring up and down the street. Preceding events having been explained to him, he offered to drive his cousin home.
"I suppose Nora has told you," he began, as they proceeded.
"Yes! Well, I am sorry. She is a charming girl."
"Ah!" Roger cried; "I knew you thought so!"
