She believed him, and while she waited, confident that he would return to her, she thought about this thing in a misty fashion.
Not yet in her life had Miss Riordan attempted to account for her emotions. She felt, and that sufficed. She had no idea why the old gentleman’s discourse upon the natural beauties of Staten Island should have made her weep. She did not know why his talk had so charmed her. She knew only, cared only, that a strange, tearful happiness had come upon her.
“I guess he liked to talk to me!” she thought, with satisfaction beyond measure.
Then she saw him coming toward her again, toddling along in his long overcoat, with a little bouquet of roses in his gloved hand.
“Oh, my goodness!” thought Miss Riordan, beginning to cry again. “Did you ever?”
He sat down beside her, a little out of breath.
“If you’ll allow me,” he said, proffering the flowers. “From one lover of Wordsworth to another. I saw that you were much moved by my little allusion.”
“You hadn’t ought to have done it!” said Miss Riordan, with a sob. “I just don’t know what to say!”
She held the flowers to her nose, and her tears rained upon them. This was her first bouquet. Her next would very likely come when she was no longer able to enjoy its fragrance or shed any more tears.
“A feeling heart!” said the old gentleman. “There! Isn’t that the bell? We’d better make our way on board, madam, or we shall be crowded out.”