“Do they really? You must show me sometime. Are there some in your garden here?”
“Yes, but father doesn’t care about them so much because they are common. I think that is so strange of him. Sunsets are common, too, aren’t they? There is a sunset every day. But the fact that a thing is common doesn’t make it less beautiful.”
She gave a little sigh.
“But what a nice idea,” she said. “I am sure you thought of it. Do you talk about these things much at Cambridge?”
Mrs. Ames began to collect ladies’ eyes at this moment, and the conversation had to be suspended. Millie Evans, though she was rather taller than Harry, managed, as she passed him on the way to the door, to convey the impression of looking up at him.
“You must tell me all about it,” she said. “And show me those delicious roses turning blue at twilight.”
Dinner had been at a quarter to eight, and when the men joined the women again in the drawing-room, light still lingered in the midsummer sky. Then Harry, greatly daring, since such a procedure was utterly contrary to all established precedents, persuaded Mrs. Evans to come out into the garden, and observe for herself the chameleonic properties of the roses. Then he had ventured on another violation of rule, since all rights of flower-picking were vested in his father, and had plucked her half-a-dozen of them. But on their return with the booty, and the establishment of the blue theory, his father, so far from resenting this invasions of his privileges, had merely said—
“The rascal might have found you something choicer than that, Mrs. Evans. But we’ll see what we can find you to-morrow.”
She had again seemed to look up at Harry.
“Nothing can be lovelier than my beautiful roses,” she said. “But it is sweet of you to think of sending me some more. Cousin Amy, look at the roses Mr. Harry has given me.”