"You found what?"
"A pimpernel. It's a common wild flower in some sandy places, but a strange enough little rascal to be seen just here. It's called the poor man's weather glass. Where it grows most common, it is not especially noticeable; but it almost took my breath this morning. It's in keeping with the surprises of the surroundings."
Devant laughed.
"Well," he said presently, "it must be a relation, same family, you know, of a pimpernel of a girl I've discovered here."
Thornly again contracted his brows.
"Solitary flower? Shutting up at approach of storm, and all the rest?" he asked.
"Solitary flower, all right," Devant rejoined. "I'm not up on plant-ology, but I've studied humans, off and on, and I cannot account for this one. I don't know whether, in my position as friend to you, I should bring this odd specimen to your notice, but I'd like to have you, as an artist, pass judgment upon her beauty."
"I might have the storm's effect upon this pimpernel of yours," Thornly put in, "make her hide within herself."
"I fancy storms would not daunt her. I don't know but that she would rather enjoy them."
Thornly yawned secretly.