"I want you to grant me a great favor," she said. "My maid is correct in her ideas of dress, but she has no idea of flowers. I have some flowers here, and knowing your great taste, I should be obliged to you if you would arrange a spray for my hair."
This speech was so unusually civil for Miss Dartelle that the young governess was quite overpowered.
"I will do it with pleasure," she replied.
"I want it to be very nice," said Miss Dartelle, with a conscious smile that was like a dagger in the girl's breast; "one of our visitors, Lord Chandon, seems to have a mania for flowers. I had almost forgotten—are there any white hyacinths among the collection?"
"Yes," was the brief reply.
"Do you think there are sufficient to form a nice spray, mixed with some maiden-hair fern?" she asked. "I should be so pleased if you could manage it."
"I will try; but, Miss Dartelle, there are so many other beautiful flowers here—why do you prefer the white hyacinths?"
Her voice faltered as she uttered her name—a name she had never heard since she fled from all that was dearest to her. Miss Dartelle, who happened to be in the most gracious humors, smiled at the question.
"I was talking to that same gentleman, Lord Chandon, yesterday, and I happened to ask him what was his favorite flower. He said the white hyacinth—oh, Miss Holte, what are you doing?"
For the flowers were falling from the nerveless hand. How could he have said that? Adrian used to call her his white Hyacinth. Had he not forgotten her? What could he mean?