It would be quite all right when she was there.
Her flowers would not harm her.
And then he heard the soft, uneven rustling of her skirts.
He looked up to see her walking toward him down the long lane of her flowers. Through the drenching grayness he could see that she wore the same light dress that made her tall and clung to her in folds so that her figure seemed to bend. He could distinguish the heavy shadowy mass of her uncovered hair. Her eyes, set far apart and dark, fixed themselves on him. A quick light flooded into them. In the dusk he saw that her hands were clasped together and that they were filled with lilies.
"Throw them away," he said when she stood beside him.
"They're so pretty," she told him, staring down at the lilies. "You'll let me keep these; just this once?"
"Throw them away," he repeated. "I can't stand the sight of them. You know that. Why must you go on picking the things and picking them?"
She shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes left his face.
"I love them," she said simply.
"Love?" He laughed. "How can you love flowers?"