At the touch of his dear one, Vernon opened his dark eyes.
"Here's a bunch of primroses," he murmured, "not daisies. I picked them, Phyllida ... for you ... not daisies ... primroses...."
And so with thoughts of flowers, Mr. Francis Vernon died. Pray let that sentence be his epitaph.
Charles, watching the maid stare into the sun with eyes whose light seemed fled with the swift-flying soul of the dead man, wished passionately—wildly—that he were the quiet body there in the dewy grass.
"What shall we do?" he murmured brokenly to Clare.
"Leave her alone for a while."
"What a mistake it has been."
They walked away with cautious steps and spoke in whispers as if they were afraid.
"What right had I to interfere between lovers?"
"You did it for the best."