"Oh, I say, Miss Weston, this is jolly. Let me go out to the carriage with you."
Billy was a nice little boy, but she hated him. She hoped she'd never see a man again. She wished she were dead. She rather thought she'd go into a convent.
"D-d-id you g-get my valentine?" stammered Billy.
He knew that something had gone wrong with his divinity, and he was embarrassed, but his conscience was clear.
Cynthia shook her head.
"What? You never got my violets?"
She turned toward him swiftly.
"Violets?"
"Why, yes. I sent you those big single ones you like best, and I put a little valentine in with them."
She looked at the chubby little figure, the round, rosy face, the neatly-parted blond hair, the downy moustache.