“Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then—”
Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. She again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected.
“What do you want these for?” Wilson asked.
“I want them,” she said. She wished servants did not ask questions.
“Ay, you’ve said as much. But what do you want them for, for decoration, or to send away, or what?”
“I want them for a presentation bouquet.”
“A presentation bouquet! Who’s coming then?—the Duchess of Portland?”
“No.”
“Oh, not her? Well you’ll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the things you’ve mentioned into your bouquet.”
“Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.”