“Zoe,” replied Helena demurely, “is assisting Dick to find more flowers.”
“And, pray, what is Dick doing here?”
“Aha! you must ask Zoe.”
“I would rather ask you.”
Helena glanced at him with a laugh, then suddenly flushed crimson, and sat down on the steps, with the white lap of her gown full of flowers.
“I am no oracle to give answers,” she replied, carefully selecting some buds.
“That means you are no goddess,” said Maurice, sitting down a step lower, and looking up into her charming face. “Well, I prefer you as a mortal maiden. But what about Colin’s wreath?”
“I am weaving it now.”
“Roses for love, myrtle for joy, violets for modesty. What a charming wreath!”
“Ah, you know the language of flowers!”