"No, I'm used to thorns. Besides, the wise ones are those who accept things as they are." She thrust the stem into her belt, found a pin from somewhere, and pinned the flower itself upon the creamy lace of her gown.
"It's just over your heart," he said. "Is your heart a rose too?"
"As far as thorns go, yes."
She leaned back against one of the white columns of the porch. She was facing the moonlight, but the lattice and the rose shaded her with fragrant dusk.
"Father and Mother planted this rose," Alden said, "the day they were married."
"How lovely," she answered, without emotion. "But to think that the rose has outlived one and probably will outlive the other!"
"Mother says she hopes it will. She wants to leave it here for me and my problematical children. The tribal sense runs rampant in Mother."
"When are you and Miss Starr going to be married?" asked Edith, idly.
Alden started. "How did you know?" he demanded, roughly, possessing himself of her hands. "Who told you—Mother, or—Miss Starr?"
Mutual Understanding