“Who?”
“She who gave you the flower,” said Campanula, lowering ever so little her head.
“Which flower?”
“The one in your coat—yesterday.”
“Oh,” said Leslie, remembering a bluebell that Jane had plucked and given him as they went down hill the day before, and remembering also that George du Telle and Campanula had been walking behind and must have seen the transaction. “She calls me Dick because that is short for my name.”
“Dick,” murmured she, in a meditative voice.
She seemed turning the name over in her mind. Tasting it mentally, so to speak.
“She is an old friend of mine,” continued Leslie. “I knew her, Campanula, before you were born, away over in another part of the world, where half the year it snows and where the wind blows just as hard as it does in Nippon, but the wind never brings flowers as it does here.”
“No flowers,” she murmured, incapable of imagining such a land.
“Only flowers like that blue one, and wild roses and a few others, but you never see camellia trees growing by the roads, nor lotus flowers on the ponds.”