"Who do you think I am cutting these flowers for?" she asked with an intolerable playfulness. "You will never guess."
Charnock stepped over to her side.
"Mrs. Warriner," said he, "will you give me one?"
She looked at him with a whimsical hesitation.
"They are intended for Gibraltar," she said, as she caressed the bunch which she held--but she spoke with a great repugnance, and the playfulness had gone from her voice before she had ended the sentence.
"For Gibraltar?" he exclaimed, remembering the gentle look upon her face as she had culled them. "For whom in Gibraltar? For whom?" He confronted her squarely; his voice commanded her to answer.
She drew back from him; the colour went from her cheeks; her fingers were interclasped convulsively; it seemed as though the words she tried to speak were choking her. But her emotion lasted for no more than a moment, though for that moment Charnock could not doubt that it was real. He took a step forwards, and she was again mistress of herself.
"Yes, I will give you one," she said hurriedly. "I will even fix it in your button-hole. Will you be grateful if I do? Will you be very grateful?" Charnock neither answered nor moved. He stood in front of her with a face singularly stolid. But Miranda's hands touched his breast, and at the shock of her fingers he drew in his breath, and his whole body vibrated.
And how it came about neither of them knew, but in an instant the flowers were on the ground between them, and her hands gripped his shoulders as they stood face to face and tightened upon them in a passionate appeal. He read the same passionate appeal in her eyes, which now frankly looked up to his.
"You don't know," she cried incoherently, "you don't know."