“I don't know anybody in South America,” said Blanche, languidly. “There were two girls here last season, but they didn't wear stays in the house, and their white frocks never were properly done up. If you go to South America, you must write to me.”
“I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in your greenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom.”
“Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came here one day. Do you know him?”
Islington laughed. “I am afraid not. But let me present this in a less business-like fashion.”
“Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,—or will you choose yourself?”
They had both risen as by a common instinct.
“Good by.”
The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant.
“Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?”
“But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright.”