“You are fond of flowers, I’ve noticed, Miss Jessy.”
“Yes, I am. Both for themselves and for the language they symbolise.”
“What language is it?”
“Don’t you know? I learnt it at school. Each flower possesses its own meaning, Mr. John Drench. This, the rose, is true love.”
“True love, is it, Miss Jessy!”
She was lightly flirting it before his face. It was too much for him, and he took it gently from her. “Will you give it me?” he asked below his breath.
“Oh, with great pleasure.” And then she lightly added, as if to damp the eager look on his face: “There are plenty more on the same tree.”
“An emblem of true love,” he softly repeated. “It’s a pretty thought. I wonder who invented——”
“Now then, John Drench, do you know that tea’s waiting. Are you going to sit down in those muddy boots and leggings?”
The sharp words came from Susan Page. Jessy turned and saw her sister’s pale, angry face. John Drench disappeared, and Miss Susan went out again, and banged the door.