Under the rain of flowers, all warm and odorous, he dropped down on his knees, and put them one by one together, smelling at the pinks, to hide the violence of his feelings. Antonia went on picking flowers, and every time her hand was full she dropped them on his hat, his shoulder, or his arms, and went on plucking more; she smiled, and on her lips a little devil danced, that seemed to know what he was suffering. And Shelton felt that she did know.
“Are you tired?” she asked; “there are heaps more wanted. These are the bedroom-flowers—fourteen lots. I can't think how people can live without flowers, can you?” and close above his head she buried her face in pinks.
He kept his eyes on the plucked flowers before him on the grass, and forced himself to answer,
“I think I can hold out.”
“Poor old Dick!” She had stepped back. The sun lit the clear-cut profile of her cheek, and poured its gold over the bosom of her blouse. “Poor old Dick! Awfully hard luck, is n't it?” Burdened with mignonette, she came so close again that now she touched his shoulder, but Shelton did not look; breathless, with wildly beating heart, he went on sorting out the flowers. The seeds of mignonette rained on his neck, and as she let the blossoms fall, their perfume fanned his face. “You need n't sort them out!” she said.
Was she enticing him? He stole a look; but she was gone again, swaying and sniffing at the flowers.
“I suppose I'm only hindering you,” he growled; “I 'd better go.”
She laughed.
“I like to see you on your knees, you look so funny!” and as she spoke she flung a clove carnation at him. “Does n't it smell good?”
“Too good Oh, Antonia! why are you doing this?”