Fortunately, no deadly or perilous adventure marked that day's expedition; yet Denzil was fated never to forget it.
Rose certainly was fond of Denzil; but her love affair had, to her, much of the phase of amusement in it. In him, it was mingled with intense and delicate respect; and every fibre seemed to thrill, when she turned half round and showed her face so beautiful in its animation, while, blown back by the soft breeze and their progress against it, her veil, and sometimes one loose tress of her silky, auburn hair, were swept across his mouth and eyes.
Denzil's hand rested on the back of her seat, and as she reclined against it, he knew that there was little more than a silk dress between it and a neck of snowy whiteness; and as the sunlight fell on her brilliant hair, it shone like floss silk, or satin, rather, while her eyes were ever beaming with pleasure, fun, excitement, and something of fondness, too; for he who sat near her was handsome, winning, dazzled by her, and, as she well knew, loved her dearly.
"Do you believe in animal magnetism?" she asked abruptly.
"I don't know--never thought about it, though I have heard old What's-his-name lecture on it at Sandhurst; but what do you mean?"
"The strange sympathy and attraction that are created between two persons who meet each other for the first time--love at first sight, in fact."
Denzil's heart beat very fast, and he was about to make a suitable response, when Rose resumed.
"I am so glad to have the pleasure of driving you, Mr. Devereaux," said she; "but see how those reins have reddened my poor fingers!" she added, holding up a plump, little white hand, ungloved, most temptingly before him. The ponies were proceeding at a walk now, and for Denzil to resist taking that hand in his, caressingly, was impossible; the next moment he had bent his lips to it, and still retained it, for Rose made no effort to withdraw it; and this seemed rather encouraging.
"And you never were in love till you came to Cabul?" she asked, deliberately.
"Never, till I saw you, Rose--dear, dear Rose--ah, permit me to call you so?" replied Denzil, with his eyes so full of tender emotion that her dark lashes drooped for a moment.
"You must not talk in this way, Mr. Devereaux; but how is one to know true love--for there is only one love, though a hundred imitations of it?" she asked, laughing--she was always laughing.