She gazed admiringly at a small, delicate white rose as she spoke; it looked so desolate without its setting of green leaves. A curious fancy seized her—was not her life like this poor flower’s, separated from all she loved?
“She is thinking of her grief,” thought the invalid girl. “You are too tender, darling,” she said, gently; “flowers are sent for our use; and, after all, we die as they do.” She paused a little, and then went on, “I will tell you where to put those, if you will. Nugent loves flowers as we do. Ask Morgan to give you some glasses, and arrange them on his table, will you?”
“Of course! Why did I not think of this before?” and, gathering them in her hands, Margery went swiftly from the room.
Lady Enid lay back very still as she disappeared, a strange yearning look on her face.
“If that only might be,” she murmured to herself, “I could go in happiness, I think.” She looked toward the door, and her eyes suddenly gleamed with joy. “Nugent,” she cried, “you have come back! How good of you to be so early!”
Lord Court bent and kissed her.
“Where is Miss Daw? You are alone.”
Lady Enid saw his eager glance.
“She has just left me to put some flowers in your room. Oh, Nugent, how sweet they are! I breathe the country air again in their scent.”
“As you will breathe it in reality, darling, soon. What does Fothergill say?”