"Yes, Madam; a holly-wreath?"
"No. One of those. Laurel."
And while the man fetched down the wreath of broad, dark, pointed leaves, Leslie Long took out one of her cards and a pencil, and scribbled the message that she presently fastened to the wreath. She would not have it wrapped up in paper, but carried it as it was. Then she turned down a side-street to the Embankment, near Vauxhall Bridge. She leaned over the parapet and saw the black, full tide, here and there only jewelled with lights, flowing on, on, past the spanning bridges and the town, away to the sea that had been at last the great, silver, restless resting-place for such young and ardent hearts....
There was a soft splash as she flung the laurel wreath into the flowing water.
Leslie glanced over and watched it carried swiftly past. In a patch of light she saw the tiny white gleam of the card that was tied to the leaves of victory.
This was what she had written upon it:
"For Gwenna and Paul.
'Envy, ah, even to tears!
The fortune of their years,
Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.'"