“Aren’t you going to ask me to finish my cigarette in your room?”
She nodded. “You may if you want to!”
In that moment together in the passage a miracle had happened. Her room was quite changed—it was full of sweet light and the scent of hyacinth flowers. Even the furniture appeared different—exciting. Quick as a flash she remembered childish parties when they had played charades, and one side had left the room and come in again to act a word—just what she was doing now. The strange man went over to the stove and sat down in her arm-chair. She did not want him to talk or come near her—it was enough to see him in the room, so secure and happy. How hungry she had been for the nearness of someone like that—who knew nothing at all about her—and made no demands—but just lived. Viola ran over to the table and put her arms round the jar of hyacinths.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” she cried—burying her head in the flowers—and sniffing greedily at the scent. Over the leaves she looked at the man and laughed.
“You are a funny little thing,” said he lazily.
“Why? Because I love flowers?”
“I’d far rather you loved other things,” said the strange man slowly. She broke off a little pink petal and smiled at it.
“Let me send you some flowers,” said the strange man. “I’ll send you a roomful if you’d like them.”
His voice frightened her slightly. “Oh no, thanks—this one is quite enough for me.”
“No, it isn’t”—in a teasing voice.