“Lovely, are they not?” replied Mary, half burying her face, as she spoke, in a great rich cluster of primroses that she had tied up together into a sort of ball. “They are the best flowers of all—these spring ones—there can be no doubt about it.”
“Or is it that they are the spring ones,” suggested Mr Cheviott.
“A little perhaps,” allowed Mary. “Have I not got a quantity? Alys took a fancy for some to take home to Romary.”
“Poor child, she will not be able to gather any for herself this year,” said Mr Cheviott.
“No,” said Mary.
“And she will not have you to gather them for her after to-day.”
“No,” said Mary again, this time more dryly.
Mr Cheviott stopped short, and as they were placed in the path, Mary, without positive rudeness, could not help stopping too.
“Miss Western,” said Mr Cheviott, abruptly, “is your decision quite unshaken?”
“What decision?” said Mary, quietly.