Miss Beresford could not help seeing the change.
It puzzled and perplexed her, until she said at last:
“You are not happy here with me, Floy. Perhaps I go out too often in society and leave you here alone. I will stay at home more hereafter.”
“Oh, no—no; I am happy enough!” protested the poor child; who felt relieved when she was alone and could throw off the mask of indifference and let her tears flow unrestrainedly over her broken love-dream.
She was so young, so friendless, and this love had become a part of her life. She could not see how she was going to live with this aching heart.
But she could not own her sorrow to St. George Beresford’s sister, never—never! She would go away and die sooner than that.
With her own little trembling white hands she carried the great basket of roses to his luxurious suite of rooms. She arranged every bud and flower to look their best for his eyes, and the single bud in the tiny crystal vase on his toilet-table she kissed twice, thinking:
“It is so sweet and fragrant he may perhaps wear it on his coat, and think of me.”
Alva came in, and looked about her with delight.
“Why, Cupid, you have made it a bower of roses. Are you sure you have left any for me?” she laughed, admiringly.