She was gazing with an absorption that shut out all other sights and sounds at the solitary blossom on the magnolia-tree. Yesterday it had been a bud; but to-day the great almond-white petals which guarded it, overlapping each other so jealously, had opened wide, and the perfect flower, keeping nothing back, had laid bare all its pure white soul before its God.
As Mr. Gresley stopped beside her, Hester turned her little pinched, ravaged face towards him and smiled. Something of the passionate self-surrender of the flower was reflected in her eyes.
"Dear Hester," he said, seeing only the wan, drawn face. "Are you ill?"
"Yes—no. I don't think so," said Hester, tremulously, recalled suddenly to herself. She looked hastily about her. The world of dew and silver had deserted her, had broken like an iridescent bubble at a touch. The magnolia withdrew itself. Hester found herself suddenly transplanted into the prose of life, emphasized by a long clerical coat and a bed of Brussels sprouts.
"I missed you," said Mr. Gresley, with emphasis.
"Where? When?" Hester's eyes had lost their fixed look and stared vacantly at him.
Mr. Gresley tried to subdue his rising annoyance.
Hester was acting, pretending not to understand, and he saw through it.
"At God's altar," he said, gravely, the priest getting the upper hand of the man.
"Have you not found me there?" said Hester, below her breath, but so low that fortunately her brother did not catch the words, and was spared their profanity.