“And that’s a man’s first consideration, of course. What did mother say?”
“Mother is—resigned.” They moved toward the stairway. “Try to persuade mother that a child doesn’t count,” Baron urged. “I’m sure Mrs. Grundy never had any children. None like Bonnie May, anyway. When you’ve once seen her——”
They were ascending the stairway eagerly, whispering. A dozen years at least seemed to have slipped from their shoulders. They entered Mrs. Baron’s sitting-room quite eagerly.
Mrs. Baron and Bonnie May were sitting quite close together, the guest in a low chair that was Flora’s. Mrs. Baron was maintaining the rôle of indulgent but overridden oracle; Bonnie May was amiably inclined to make allowances. They were conversing in a rather sedate fashion.
“My sister, Flora, Bonnie May,” said Baron.
The child came forward eagerly. “How lovely!” she exclaimed, extending her hand.
Flora regarded the child with smiling eyes. “Oh! you mean the roses,” she said. “Yes, they are.” But she did not look at the flowers on her arm. She pushed a pennon-like fragment of veil away from her face and smiled quietly at the child.
“I didn’t mean them,” explained Bonnie May. “I meant it was lovely that you should be—that I’m to have— Do excuse me, I mean that you are lovely!”
Only an instant longer Miss Baron remained as if happily spellbound. A breath that was fragrant and cool emanated from her and her roses. The hue of pleasure slowly deepened in her cheeks.
“You dear child!” she said at last, the spell broken, “I can’t remember when anybody has said such a thing to me before.”