“It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey, and it's all sweet—flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, but I've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove.”
“I won't laugh—-I think it's lovely. What do you like best, Miss Ainslie?”
“I love them all,” she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep, unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth, “but I think the lavender comes first. It's so sweet, and then it has associations—”
She paused, in confusion, and Ruth went on, quickly: “I think they all have associations, and that's why we love them. I can't bear red geraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had her yard full of them, and I shall always love the lavender,” she added, softly, “because it makes me think of you.”
Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone. “Now we'll go into the house,” she said, “and we'll have tea.”
“I shouldn't stay any longer,” murmured Ruth, following her, “I've been here so long now.”
“'T isn't long,” contradicted Miss Ainslie, sweetly, “it's been only a very few minutes.”
Every moment, the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm. Miss Ainslie spread a napkin of finest damask upon the little mahogany tea table, then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design, and two cups of Japanese china, dainty to the point of fragility.
“Why, Miss Ainslie,” exclaimed Ruth, in surprise, “where did you get Royal Kaga?”
Miss Ainslie was bending over the table, and the white hand that held the teapot trembled a little. “They were a present from—a friend,” she answered, in a low voice.