"You don't seem quite the thing, Paulina," I remarked in an undertone. "Have you a headache?"
She nodded.
"Then why go to town to-day?" I said. "London is hardly the place to cure a headache."
"Oh, it is nothing; I must go," she said impatiently. "I hate putting things off. I want to start the golf while this fine weather lasts."
It was a lovely June morning. When I had seen Paulina off, I went round the garden with basket and scissors, gathering fresh flowers for the vases. I came to the corner where was Miss Cottrell's tiny domain, and found her exhibiting its beauties to Alan Faulkner. She had certainly done wonders in the short time she had had it in her care. The little parterre was gay with flowers. She was especially proud of a cluster of fine carnations of the striped variety which I believe is commonly known as "strawberries and cream."
"They are splendid," said Mr. Faulkner, as he bent to inhale their perfume; "I am so fond of carnations."
"I will give you a buttonhole," said Miss Cottrell eagerly. "Your scissors, please, Miss Darracott."
In vain he protested that it would be a pity to gather them. Miss Cottrell cut two of the finest blooms and presented them to him.
"Oh, I cannot be so greedy as to take two," he said. "Miss Nan must have one. Yes, indeed, Miss Nan." And he insisted on giving me one.
"Here is a pin," said Miss Cottrell, as I tried to fasten the carnation beneath my brooch. I adjusted it carefully, but no sooner had I done so than Mr. Faulkner declared that the other was a finer one, and asked me to change flowers with him.