“You oughtn’t to have to be told,” she said, with shamed frankness, when she could command her voice.
“If I had meant to, I wouldn’t; that is my justification.”
He touched her hair. “Come, this isn’t you—I always liked that straightforward way of yours. Don’t spoil our last day. Tell me, what’s the matter?”
“That’s what stings—you not only thought little enough of them to throw them away; you forgot it.”
There was a complaining note in her voice. It was less anger than grief she felt. Her head had the plaintive droop of a spoiled child asking consolation.
“Do you mean the flowers on my boot; is that all?” Slipping one hand in his pocket and pulling out a few, bruised, draggled morning glories. An expression of joy flashed over her wet face. A faint, amused gleam shot into his serious eyes.
“Tagger used them for a handle, and I thought their condition decided in favor of pressing rather than wearing. I saved the pieces you see.”
“They were all the color of my dreams—I couldn’t help but think that was the way they would go some day.”
“If I can help it, they won’t.”
Taking out a notebook he dropped the flowers between its leaves. Her girlish illusions were dear to him. He wouldn’t destroy one of them.