“I conclude then it was not for my dazzling charms,” Tommy answered saucily.
“It was because you wore the only flower I ever notice, one that is associated with my earliest childhood. I never knew a woman to wear a bunch of mignonette before.”
“Some one sent it to me, I remember, and it had some hideous scarlet pinks in the middle. I put the pinks in my room and pinned on the mignonette because it matched my dress. I am very fond of green.”
“My mother loved mignonette. We always had beds of it in our garden and pots of it growing in the house in winter. I can smell it whenever I close my eyes.”
Tommy glanced at him. She felt something in his voice that she liked, something that attracted her and wakened an instantaneous response.
“But go on,” he said. “I only know as yet that you sailed from New York in the early summer, as I did.”
“Well, I went to London to join a great friend, a singer, Helena Markham. Have you heard of her?”
“No; is she an American?”
“Yes, a Western girl, from Montana, with oh! such a magnificent voice and such a big talent!” (The outward sweep of Tommy’s hands took in the universe.) “We’ve had some heavenly weeks together. I play accompaniments, and—”
“I know you do!”