"I shall be delighted to do so another day," I replied, pleased to think that my isolation was to be thus alleviated. Then my eyes fell on his buttonhole, which was adorned by a fine striped carnation. "So," I exclaimed, "Miss Cottrell has given you another of her carnations."
"How could she?" he asked with a smile. "Miss Cottrell is not at 'Gay Bowers.' This is the one you gave me."
"What do you mean?" I said. "I never gave you a carnation."
"Did you not?" he asked. "At least you gave me back one after you had worn it a few seconds, thus giving it a new and rare value."
Who would have thought that a learned man like Professor Faulkner could have said a thing like that? It was the sort of compliment Jack Upsher might have paid me, and I should have thought it silly from his lips; but somehow I was not impressed with its silliness at this moment. I should have been annoyed with Jack for saying it, but I was not annoyed with Alan Faulkner. I recalled the words many times in the course of that day and ever with a joyous thrill of the heart. What little things make up the sum of life! To this day I can never see what is called a "strawberry and cream" carnation without recalling that hour and the sweetness of the strange new hope that then awoke to life.
But at the moment Alan Faulkner's words struck me dumb. My eyes fell beneath his gaze, and to my vexation I felt the colour mounting to my forehead. The awkward pause which ensued seemed long to my consciousness, but it could have been but a second or two ere I lifted my head and said stiffly:
"Oh, that was a mere exchange."
Ere Alan Faulkner could make any rejoinder, there was the sound of another bicycle rushing down the lane and Jack Upsher came in sight. He had turned aside on his way to Chelmsford in order to assure himself that I had not yet developed scarlet fever.