And with a graceful bow he presented to her a beautiful bouquet. I thought Daphne quite ridiculous in her admiration of it.
"O, how pretty!" she cried. "Thank you very much, Mr. Vasari. I am so fond of flowers. Smell how sweet they are, Frank." And she actually held the odious gift close to my nostrils for my appreciation. "Aren't they sweet?"
"Very," I said drily.
"Aren't these violets lovely, papa?" she said, appealing to her father for the appreciation she had failed to elicit from me.
"Purple," replied her republican parent, who was accustomed to spell king with a small k, and people with a capital p, "is my aversion, being the colour and emblem of tyrants and kings."
"How absurd you are, papa!" returned she. "What is your favorite colour, Mr. Vasari?"
"That which sparkles on the cheek of Beauty," replied the idiot, with his eyes fixed on my cousin's face. And certainly no colour could be more beautiful than Daphne's sweet blush at that moment, and my jealousy redoubled toward the person who had called it forth. "Do you understand the language of flowers, Miss Leslie?"
"Only a very little; do you, Frank?"
"Not I," I answered curtly. "I consider it an absurd study, if you wish for my opinion."
"You must permit me to teach you," said Angelo to Daphne, completely ignoring my remark.