"Well, bulbs. And every year one flower comes out in the middle of the Winter rain and lasts about ten minutes, and then all the Summer Birdwood and Father grub about looking for the bulb, which they never find, and then Father gets six new ones."
They talked on, the three of them, about flowery subjects while the Rector drank his tea from the mug without a word of comment on the inscription. Then he went off to write a letter, and Guy, with a regretful glance at the room, supposed he ought to go.
"Oh no! Stay a little while," said Pauline. "Look, it's raining again."
It was only a shower through which the declining sun was lancing silver rays. As they watched it from the window without speaking, Pauline wondered if she ought to have given so frank an invitation to stay longer. Would Margaret have frowned? And how odd Guy was this afternoon. Why did he keep looking at her so intently as if about to speak, and then turn away with a sigh and nothing said?
"I do love this room," said Guy at last.
"I love it, too," Pauline agreed.
"May I ask you something?"
"Yes, of course."
"You spoke to Margaret the other day about some one called Richard. Do you like him very much?"
"Yes, of course. Only you mustn't ask me about him. Please don't. I've promised Margaret I wouldn't talk about him. Please, please, don't ask me any more."