“So do I, for mine,” answered Juliette.
Then they both tried to set this seal of possession upon that lily bloom, with the strange result that their young lips met through its fragile substance and with so much energy that it was crushed and ruined.
“Oh!” said Godfrey with a start, “look what you have done to the flower.”
“I! I, wicked one! Well, for the matter of that, look what you have done to my lips. They feel quite bruised.”
Then first she laughed, and next looked as though she were going to cry.
“Don’t be sad,” said Godfrey remorsefully. “No doubt we shall find another, now that we know where they are.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, “but it is always the first that one remembers, and it is finished,” and she threw down the stalk and stamped on it.
Just then they heard a sound of laughter, and looking up, to their horror perceived that they were not alone. For there, seated upon stones at the end of the tiny valley, in composed and comfortable attitudes, which suggested that they had not arrived that moment, were two gentlemen, who appeared to be highly amused.
Godfrey knew them at once, although he had not seen them since the previous autumn. They were Brother Josiah Smith, the spiritualist, and Professor Petersen, the investigating Dane, whom he used to meet at the séances in the Villa Ogilvy.
“I guess, young Brother Knight,” said the former, his eyes sparkling with sarcastic merriment, “that there is no paint on you. When you find a flower, you know how to turn it to the best possible use.”