But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her sensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love.
“What do you want to say to me, my love?”
“Daddie—!” her eyes smiled laconically—“isn’t it silly if I give Miss Brangwen some flowers when she comes?”
The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love.
“No, darling, that’s not silly. It’s what they do to queens.”
This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness. Yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion.
“Shall I then?” she asked.
“Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell Wilson I say you are to have what you want.”
The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way.
“But I won’t get them till tomorrow,” she said.