“Oh, my darlings, my darlings!” he murmured passionately, with his lips pressed to the fragrant petals.
“Do you love them, then, so much?”
“Lady,” replied the boy, raising himself to a sitting posture, “there is nothing in the world to me like flowers.”
“I never thought boys cared so for flowers,” remarked Ruth, in surprise.
“I am a gardener,” said he, simply, and again fell to caressing the roses. Sitting up, he looked fully seventeen or eighteen years old.
“You must have missed them during your illness,” observed Ruth.
A long sigh answered her. The boy rested his dreamy eyes upon her. He was no longer ugly, with his thoughts illumining his face.
“Marechal Niel,” she heard him whisper, still with his eyes upon her, “all in soft, radiant robes like a gracious queen. Lady, you fit well next my Homer rose.”
“What Homer rose?” asked Ruth, humoring the flower-poet’s odd conceit.
“My strong, brave Homer. There is none like him for strength, with all his gentle perfume folded close to his heart. I used to think these Duchesses would suit him best; but now, having seen you, I know they were too frail,—Marechal Niel.” It was impossible to resent openly the boy’s musings; but with a quick insistence that stemmed the current of his thoughts, she said,—