"Perhaps there's a stinging-nettle or two labelled with your name," she answered lightly. "The Nettlewort Erringtonia," she added, smiling.
Diana was growing up rapidly.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you that I'm sorry—that I'd uproot them if I could?"
She looked away from him in silence. He could not see her expression, only the pure outline of her cheek and a little pulse that was beating rapidly in her throat.
With a sudden, impetuous movement he released her hand, almost flinging it from him.
"My application for the post of gardener is refused, I see," he said. "And quite rightly, too. It was great presumption on my part. After all"—with bitter mockery—"what are a handful of nettles in the garden of a prima donna? They'll soon be stifled beneath the wreaths of laurel and bouquets that the world will throw you. You'll never even feel their sting."
"You are wrong," said Diana, very low, "quite wrong. They have stung me. Mr. Errington"—and as she turned to him he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears—"why can't we be friends? You—you have helped me so many times that I don't understand why you treat me now . . . almost as though I were an enemy?"
"An enemy? . . . You!"
"Yes," she said steadily.
He was silent.