"That is called an unpatriotic attitude," remarked Marie with singular acidity.
"Ah, you are a Liberal, too! Of course Jack is."
"Certainly, if you take the utterance of the Conservative leaders as official. Jack, for instance, looks upon the Boer War as a war with a Power that was no Power at all, but the Government officially alludes to it as 'the great Boer War.' There is the party note. Oh, there is no such strong Conservative as the man who has once been a Radical! Conversion is always followed by exaggeration."
Marie stopped, plucked a couple of tea-roses and pinned them into the front of her dress. Then, looking up, she saw his eyes fixed on her face, and though they both had been speaking honestly about a subject that honestly interested them, she knew how superficial their talk had been; speeches had been made correctly, but automatically—no more. She was glad to know about his future plans; he, on his side, liked to speak of them, for, as he said, he was going to make a profession of politics. But they had both been talking "shop"; and as she raised her eyes to his, "shop" became suddenly impossible.
"Another rose," he said, "and give it me."
She did not answer. Then she drew one from the two she had fastened in her dress.
"Flowers to a friend," she said, holding it out to him. "It is an Italian proverb, Jim. Do you know the response?"
"You will tell it me."
"And honour from the friend," she replied.
He was cut to the quick, yet a phantom of self-justification was up in arms.