"Look at them! Aren't they glorious!"
On a table at her elbow his roses nodded from a wide-lipped vase, a gorgeous riot of flame and fragrance. Gazing at them, the young man marvelled at his own princely prodigality.
"I don't know how to thank you for them, Mr. Queed, They are so, so sweet, and I do love roses so!"
Indeed her joy in them was too obvious to require any words. Queed decided to say nothing about the mitts.
"I'm glad that they please you," said he, pulling himself together for the ordeal of the call. "How are you getting along up here? Very well, I trust?"
"Fine. It's so quiet and nice.... And I don't mind about graduating a bit any more. Isn't that funny?"
"You must hurry up and get well and return to the dining-room again, F—F—Fifi—, and to the algebra lessons—"
"Don't," said Fifi. "I can't bear it."
But she whisked at her eyes with a tiny dab of a handkerchief, and when she looked at him she was smiling, quite clear and happy.
"Have you missed me since I stopped coming?"