Hazel turned at the suggestion, in a little flutter of eagerness, to select a rosebud, or whatever chanced to look most fitting, wherewith to honour the occasion; and after some diligent search was about to pluck, when of a sudden something stayed her hand. In an instant the sweet, unconscious child was gone, and a dignified maiden stood in her stead.
"You may take anything you fancy," she said. "Miles won't mind."
The young man stood appalled. "You—you won't give me one?" he expostulated.
"You can't want it very much if you find it too much trouble to take one for yourself," she answered evasively.
"Hazel," he said, much aggrieved, "you have given me flowers before. Don't you remember the little bunch of Shepherd's Eye?"
Yes, Hazel remembered—she was minded how glad she had been that he thought them so pretty, and had asked for them so eagerly. He was just as eager now—he was fond of flowers. How was it that somehow she could not bring herself to give him one? It was so little to ask of her! What had happened—what had come between her and this dear friend? What was it? It had been much happier then. Surely he was the same? Yet something was not the same, somehow things were different. She looked up: there was troubled questioning in the wistful brown eyes. Was she relenting?
"You will give me a flower?" he asked eagerly, drawing a step nearer.
His ardour frightened her. Had he spoken lightly and affected carelessness—had he managed to hide, or disguise, much of the fervour that marked his simple request, she would perhaps, though troubled and perplexed at her own reluctance, have complied with it. She drew back as he advanced and put her hands behind her, looking half timid, half defiant.
"No," she answered determinedly.
Paul stood regarding her thoughtfully. "Why not?" he asked at length, bluntly.