“No; all those years in India, and in towns. She has lived so much in towns. Such an inappropriate life it seems for such an exquisite creature.”
“Does it?” said Mrs. Pomfrey. She added after a moment, as if with concession, “She is a very pretty girl.”
Aubrey Westmacott was not acute. “Isn’t she?” he said eagerly. “A beautiful and noble and lovely head, isn’t it? like a flower; she is altogether like a flower, with her slenderness and height. Do you know,” he went on, swinging his glasses more quickly, while he kept his ingenuous eyes on his friend, “can you guess the flower she makes me think of? In that pale pink dress, that pink dress she wore the other day at the rectory garden party, and with that white hat lined with pink. Can you guess?” His eyes overflowed with their suggestion.
Mrs. Pomfrey moved hers from his face to the foxgloves. “Like those, I suppose you mean.”
“Isn’t she?” he repeated. “Now, isn’t it quite remarkable? You see it, too.”
“Yes; I see it,” said Mrs. Pomfrey. She studied the flowers and again, after a deliberating pause, went on, “Do you think Mrs. Pickering is like purple foxgloves?”
Aubrey’s eyeglass tumbled from his hand. He was astonished, almost indignant. “Mrs. Pickering?”
“She looks like her daughter,” said Mrs. Pomfrey; “as much like her, that is, as a purple foxglove looks like a pink one.”
“I can imagine nothing more unlike a flower than Mrs. Pickering,” said Aubrey, with gathered repudiation.
“No; certainly; she’s not at all like a flower. She’s more like a sparrow—something sharp and commonplace and civic. I only intended an analogy, for she must have been a very pretty girl.” “Nothing could be less sharp or commonplace or civic than Miss Pickering.” Aubrey was now deeply flushed.