Flora flared up as Mrs. Delano had never seen her.  She reddened to the temples, and her lip curled scornfully.  “He is a mean man!” she exclaimed.  “If he thought that I myself was a suitable wife for his serene highness, what had my great-grandmother to do with it?  I wish he had asked me to marry him.  I should like to have him know I never cared a button about him; and that, if I didn’t care for him, I should consider it more shameful to sell myself for his diamonds, than it would have been to have been sold for a slave by papa’s creditors when I couldn’t help myself.  I am glad you don’t feel like going into parties, Mamita; and if you ever do feel like it, I hope you will leave me at home.  I don’t want to be introduced to any of these cold, aristocratic Bostonians.”

“Not all of them cold and aristocratic, darling,” replied Mrs. Delano.  “Your Mamita is one of them; and she is becoming less cold and aristocratic every day, thanks to a little Cinderella who came to her singing through the woods, two years ago.”

“And who found a fairy godmother,” responded Flora, subsiding into a tenderer tone.  “It is ungrateful for me to say anything against Boston; and with such friends as the Percivals too.  But it does seem mean that Mr. Green, if he really liked me, should decline speaking to me because my great-grandmother had a dark complexion.  I never knew the old lady, though I dare say I should love her if I did know her.  Madame used to say Rosabella inherited pride from our Spanish grandfather.  I think I have some of it, too; and it makes me shy of being introduced to your stylish acquaintance, who might blame you if they knew all about me.  I like people who do know all about me, and who like me because I am I. That’s one reason why I like Florimond.  He admired my mother, and loved my father; and he thinks just as well of me as if I had never been sold for a slave.”

“Do you always call him Florimond?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“I call him Mr. Blumenthal before folks, and he calls me Miss Delano.  But when no one is by, he sometimes calls me Miss Royal, because he says he loves that name, for the sake of old times; and then I call him Blumen, partly for short, and partly because his cheeks are so pink, it comes natural.  He likes to have me call him so.  He says Flora is the Goettinn der Blumen in German, and so I am the Goddess of Blumen.”

Mrs. Delano smiled at these small scintillations of wit, which in the talk of lovers sparkle to them like diamond-dust in the sunshine.

“Has he ever told you that he loved you as well as your name?” asked she.

“He never said so, Mamita; but I think he does,” rejoined Flora.

“What reason have you to think so?” inquired her friend.

“He wants very much to come here,” replied the young lady; “but he is extremely modest.  He says he knows he is not suitable company for such a rich, educated lady as you are.  He is taking dancing-lessons, and lessons on the piano, and he is studying French and Italian and history, and all sorts of things.  And he says he means to make a mint of money, and then perhaps he can come here sometimes to see me dance, and hear me play on the piano.”