‘No, there ain’t,’ said the gardener.
‘Well, then, traveller’s joy. That means safety.’
‘Plenty of that—nasty weed,’ said the gardener, but not unkindly. ‘Right you are, Miss. I’ll bring ’em to the dining-room window to save my boots on cook’s flagstones.’
‘So that’s all right,’ said Caroline, returning to the others. ‘We’re to go at twelve. Only now we must write to Aunt Emmeline and send her the traveller’s joy, because I said we wanted to send it in a letter. Yes, you must, too, Charles. We shall be doing an unselfish act, because I’m sure no one wants to write to Aunt Emmeline, and she says unselfishness makes the sun shine on the cloudiest days.’
‘All right, we’ll try it on,’ said Charles, but not hopefully; and soon there was a deep stillness, broken only by the slow scratching of pens.
Presently the gardener brought the roses and clematis to the window.
‘That’s what you want?’ he asked, handing in the wet red and green bouquet.
‘Quite,’ said Caroline; ‘and do you know it’s just as well you hadn’t any stephanotis, because I see it doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. It means ‘Will you accompany me to the East?’ and Aunt Emmeline would have been so upset wondering what we meant.’
‘She wouldn’t ’a been the only one,’ said the gardener, and clumped away on those boots which were not considered suitable for cook’s flagstones.