Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands.
"But it was to-morrow—" she began.
"You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans' wedding."
"Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then Lucy suddenly having that chill—."
Paul struck in. "Really, Maggie, that's too bad. No flowers to-morrow? Those others were quite dead yesterday. I noticed at evensong ... Really, really. And the Morgans' wedding!"
Maggie sat there, trembling.
"I'm very sorry," she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which to strike?
"I'll go and do them now," she said. "I can take those flowers out of the drawing-room."
"It's done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph. "I did them myself this afternoon."
"Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out. "It's not fair making me miserable just for your own fun. You don't know how you hurt, Grace. You're cruel, you're cruel!"