"I will take them if you wish, Adolfo," Margaret answered. "But they are—they are very—"
The roses looked indeed as if intended for a joyous occasion; they were sumptuous, superb.
"You mean that they are bright. I know it; I intended them to be so." He still held them towards her.
"Wait a while," she said.
His face changed. "I know you are my friend," he murmured, as if he were saying it to convince himself. His eyes had dropped to his rejected blossoms.
She could see that he was passionately angry, and making one of his firm efforts to hold himself in control. "I will take them if you wish it," she said, gently, and she extended her hand. "I leave it to you. They are wonderfully beautiful, I see that."
"They came from Cuba; I have been watching them growing for nineteen months—for this."
"It is a house of mourning, you know, that I am going to," she said. "It was, as you say, nineteen months ago—a long time; but the remembrance will be very fresh at the rectory this afternoon."
His anger suddenly left him, he raised his eyes from his roses to her face, and smiled. "It's always fresh to me!" he answered. The glow in his dark countenance, as he brought this out, appalled her, it was like a triumph—triumph over death. He walked to the door and tossed the roses into the sunshine outside. "You are right," he said. "I can afford to wait—now!" And, with a quick salutation, he pulled his hat down over his brows and walked away.
Telano drove Margaret up the water-road to Gracias. It was late in the afternoon when she reached the rectory; Dr. Kirby was watching for her, he came down to the gate to meet her.