"Yes, yes. Get on."
"I oughtn't to have done it, Miss. But Georgette went into the garden and plucked a flower, and lifted up the flap of the envelope, and laughed, and tucked the flower inside."
"It's a great pity, Susan," I said, "that you didn't take it out again. If you'd make up your mind to marry Lord Ruddington it wouldn't matter. But can't you see how foolish it will look? It simply contradicts the letter asking for a week's grace."
"Yes, Miss," said Susan, going redder than ever. But she showed no sign of departing.
"Is that all, Susan?" I asked, with a sudden fear that there was worse to follow.
"No, Miss," she answered faintly. "After we'd posted the letter, Georgette laughed again and said that the flower had a meaning."
"A meaning?"
"Yes, Miss. The Language of Flowers, Miss. Georgette said the flower meant 'Vang.'"
"Vang?"
"Yes, Miss. That's the French Language of Flowers, Miss. Georgette says that, in English, it means 'Come'!"