"Of course," he answered, and, for no reason at all, colored like a schoolboy.
Marcia opened the box and sat gazing at the flowers.
Into her face came a sudden gravity and the delicate features seemed almost sad. She said, "Thank you," in a low voice and continued to gaze at her gift. Then she buried her face in their fragrance and for a moment held it there. When she raised it to him again it was smiling, though still gravely.
"They are lovely," she told him. "I'm glad you thought of them."
"You seemed almost sad," Paul spoke with a voice of deep solicitude. "Did I make a mistake? Do violets stand for something you don't want to be reminded of?"
She shook her head and laughed, and this time with the old note of merriment.
"Violets stand for everything that's nice," she assured him. "It was just that—I hardly know—just that it suddenly occurred to me how long a time it's been since anyone gave me flowers."
"Someone is going to—often," the words came quickly, and impulsively he laid his hand over hers for just a moment.
"Do you know, I have the instincts of a sybarite?" she informed him. "When I go to sleep tonight, I shall put these violets near the head of my bed, and whenever I wake up I'll smell them."