‘Now we must none of us look at her—in the picture, I mean. And then we can’t be sure that she isn’t sitting in that chair,’ said Caroline.
After dinner Caroline looked up ‘Remorse’s regret’ in The Language of Flowers. It was agreed that Mrs. Wilmington had better have a bouquet.
‘Brambles,’ Caroline said, her finger in the book, ‘they’re Remorse—but they wouldn’t make a very comfortable nosegay. And Regret’s verbena, and I don’t even know what it is.’
‘Put pansies with the brambles,’ said Charlotte; ‘that’ll be thoughts of remorse.’
So the housekeeper, coming down very neat in her afternoon dress of shiny black alpaca, was met by a bunch of pansies.
‘To show we think we’re remorsish about the secret stairs,’ said Charlotte; ‘and look out, because the brambles are the remorse and they prick like Billy-o!’
Mrs. Wilmington smiled, and looked quite nice-looking.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am sure you will remember not to repeat the fault.’
Which wasn’t the nicest way of receiving a remorse bouquet; but, then as Charlotte said, perhaps she couldn’t help not knowing the nice ways. And anyhow, she seemed pleased, and that was the great thing, as Charlotte pointed out.