“That’s what the country people often call the chicory weed in France.”
She was able to gasp feebly: “Oh, does it grow there?”
“I think it grows pretty nearly everywhere. It’s one of the most classic wild flowers we know anything about. The ancient Egyptians dried its leaves to give flavor to their salad, and I remember being told at Luxor that the modern Copts and Arabs do the same. You see it’s quite a friendly little beast to man.”
It eased her other feelings to tell him about the crazy woman in Canada, and her reading of the dust-flower’s significance.
“That’s a good idea too,” Allerton agreed, smiling down into her eyes. “There are people like that—little dust-flowers cheering up the wayside for the rest of us poor brutes.”
She said, wistfully: “I suppose you’ve known a lot of them.”
THE PRINCE’S FIRST WORDS WERE ALSO A DISTRACTION FROM TERRORS, AND ENCHANTMENTS WHICH MADE HER FEEL FAINT