“Here are no end of flowers,” as the butler brought a hamper.
“Daffodils! Oh!—and anemones! How delicious! I must take Clement a bunch of those dear white violets. I know where they came from,” and she held them to her lips. “Some primroses too, I hope.”
“A few; but the main body, tied up in tight bunches like cauliflowers, I dropped at Kensington Palace Gardens.”
“A yellow primrose is much more than a yellow primrose at present,” said Mrs. Grinstead, picking out the few spared from political purposes. “Clement will want his button-hole, to greet Lance.”
“So he is advanced to button-holes! And Lance?”
“He is coming up for the Press dinner, and will sleep here, to be ready for Primrose-day.”
“That’s prime, whatever brings him.”
“There, children, go and do the flowers, and drink tea. I am going to read to your uncle to keep him fresh for Lance.”
“How bright she looks,” said Gerald, as Anna began collecting vases from the tables in a drawing-room not professionally artistic, but entirely domestic, and full of grace and charm of taste, looking over a suburban garden fresh with budding spring to a church spire.
“The thought of Uncle Lance has cheered them both very much.”