"It is not worth your having," she stammered. "It is only a daisy."
"Only a daisy! The daisy shall be my favourite flower of all flowers from henceforth."
"Indeed, I think you must go in to Lydia."
"I am going in. How the wind blows! You will catch cold without your hat."
"I never catch cold, Mr. Raynor. I never have anything the matter with me."
He put the daisy into his button-hole, its pink and white head just peeping out. Margaret protested hotly.
"Oh, don't; please don't! Mamma will laugh at you, Mr. Raynor. Such a stupid little flower!"
"Not stupid to me," he answered. "As to laughing, Mrs. St. Clare may laugh at it as much as she pleases; and at me too."
The house was gained at last. Crossing the flagged entrance-hall, they entered a very pretty morning-room, its curtains and furniture of pale green, bordered with gold. Mrs. St. Clare, a large, fair woman with a Roman nose, lay back in an easy-chair, a beautifully-worked screen attached to the white marble mantelpiece shading her face from the fire. Her gown was black and white: grey and black ribbons composed her head-dress. She looked half-dead with ennui. Those large women are often incorrigibly idle and listless: she never took up a needle, never cared to turn the pages of a book. She was indolent by nature, and had grown more so during her life in India before the death of her husband, Colonel St. Clare.
But her face lighted up to something like animation when Mr. Raynor entered and went forward. Margaret fell into the background. After shaking hands with Mrs. St. Clare, he turned to the opposite side of the fireplace; where, in another easy-chair, enveloped in a pink morning-wrapper, sat the invalid, Lydia.