"Ah, what a beautiful flower!" suddenly cried Rosabella, in order to
break the silence, then stooped and plucked a violet with an
appearance of the greatest eagerness, though, in fact, nothing at
that moment could have been more a matter of indifference.
"It is a very beautiful flower, indeed," gravely observed Flodoardo,
and was out of all patience with himself for having made so flat a
speech.
"Nothing can surpass this purple," continued Rosabella; "red and
blue so happily blended, that no painter can produce so perfect a
union."
"Red and blue--the one the symbol of happiness, the other of
affection. Ah, Rosabella! how enviable will be that man's lot on
whom your hand shall bestow such a flower. Happiness and affection
are not more inseparably united than the red and blue which purple
that violet."
"You seem to attach a value to the flower of which it is but little
deserving."
"Might I but know on whom Rosabella will one day bestow what that
flower expresses. Yet, this is a subject which I have no right to
discuss. I know not what has happened to me to-day. I make nothing
but blunders and mistakes. Forgive my presumption, lady. I will
hazard such forward inquiries no more."
He was silent. Rosabella was silent also.
But though they could forbid their lips to betray their hidden
affection; though Rosabella said not--"Thou art he on whom this
flower shall be bestowed:" though Flodoardo's words had not
expressed--"Rosabella, give me that violet, and that which it
implies"--oh, their eyes were far from being silent.
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