"And now I've plucked it," sighed Mrs Bosenna.
"Well, if you won't, perhaps Mr Middlecoat will, rather than waste it."
Mr Middlecoat stepped forward and allowed the enormous bloom to be inserted in his buttonhole, where its pure white threw up a fine contrast to his crimsoning face.
"You won't think me forward, I hope?" said Mrs Bosenna, turning about.
"The fact is—though I don't want it generally known yet—that yesterday
Mr Middlecoat, in his disagreeable way, made me promise to marry him?"
Before the pair could recover, she had moved to another bush.
"Red roses, you prefer? Red is rare amongst the Teas—there's but one, as yet, that can be called red—if this suits you? And, by luck, there are two perfect buttonholes."
She plucked the buds and held them out.
"It's name," said she, "is Liberty."