"I admit what I said was not true, Miss. As you say, it was not yet eleven." James was pale. So she had thrown it away, confident that this moment would arrive. This humiliation was premeditated. Patience, he said inwardly; this would be the last opportunity she should have to humiliate him.
"Have you the flower on your person?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Did you know that it was mine?"
He was silent.
"Did you know that it was mine?"—mercilessly.
"Yes; but I believed that you had deliberately thrown it away. I saw no harm in taking it."
"But there was harm."
"I bow to your superior judgment, Miss,"—ironically.
She deemed it wisest to pass over this experimental irony. "Give the flower back to me. It is not proper that a servant should have in his keeping a rose which was once mine, even if I had thrown it away or discarded it."