“Nonsense, Arthur. Fanny, let us ask Mr Snow,” said Rose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. “Now, Uncle Sampson, which is prettiest? I’ll leave the decision to you.”
“Uncle Sampson” was a very pleasant sound in Mr Snow’s ears, and never more so, than when it came from the lips of Rose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring look that he answered—
“Well I can’t say which is the prettiest. You are both as pretty as you need to be. If you were as good as you are pretty!”
Rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited.
“I mean our wreaths. Look, mine is made of these dear little Scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. Fanny’s, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. Now, which is the prettiest?”
She took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly.
“Yours ain’t half so pretty as it was a minute ago. I think, now, I should admire Mrs Elliott’s most,” said Mr Green, gravely.
They both curtseyed to him.
“You see, Rosie, Mr Green has decided in my favour,” said Fanny, triumphantly.
“Yes, but not in favour of your wreath. The others thought the same, but I don’t mind about that. It is our wreaths I want to know about. Let us ask Graeme.”