“O—oh, it’s heavenly,” she sighed.
“Peggy, it’s a serenade,” breathed Katherine happily.
“Of course it is,” assented Peggy, as if she were used to this kind of thing, “and it’s a very nice one.”
“Peggy, oughtn’t you to—to throw down flowers when you’re serenaded?” Katherine demanded suddenly.
“Oh, yes, you have to,” Peggy agreed, so that she might not show how ignorant she was of the requirements of so delightful a situation.
“We haven’t any.” Katherine’s tone was forlorn and heartbroken.
“Wait,” cried Peggy, scrambling down from the window seat where she had perched, “the roses,—off the rose tree.”
And she ran to their treasured plant and seized it, jardiniere and all, and ran back to the window so that she might not miss any of the singing while she was despoiling their little tree of its blossoms. From every window in the wing a dim figure might be discerned behind the shaking lace curtains. With the plant tucked firmly under one arm Peggy leaned out dreamily.
“It’s all a lovely thing to have happen,” she said, “now I’m going to begin and throw the roses down. Ouch! Goodness,—oh, dear!”
She pricked herself on a thorn and in jerking away her hand she forgot that she was holding anything.