She put the conserve upon his plate, took up her flowers that lay on the table, and added:
"I picked these for you, Miss Waring; they are from your favorite bush."
She gave them to Hinchley to carry to Margaret; Mr. Laurence ate his marmalade and looked a little vexed.
"They are beautiful roses," Hinchley said.
"Very," Margaret replied, putting them carelessly in her hair; "you shall have a bud to reward you for not having purloined the whole bunch."
She selected a half-open rose and handed it to him. Miss Chase smiled imperceptibly.
"May I have a cup of tea, Miss Chase?" asked Laurence, adding, as he bent toward her: "You were over fastidious, you see."
Not a word answered Sybil—just the slightest elevation of her eyebrows, the least possible expression of surprise about her mouth; yet, by that mere nothing, she contrived to show that she disapproved of the innocent and thoughtless act, but meant to keep any such feeling to herself.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. Mr. Laurence forgot his momentary vexation, the cause of which he could scarcely have told. He challenged Miss Chase to a game of chess, and she consented.