The next thing the Lady Evening Glory’s sharp eyes fell upon were the flowers. They lay in a great, tumbled mass all about the Lady Wistaria. There was no mistaking the meaning of those tell-tale blossoms. The Lady Evening Glory’s lips became a thin, pursed line.
“The flowers? Whence came they?”
“From the honorable garden,” answered Wistaria, trembling.
“There is no tree in all the garden with blossoms in full bloom. They are only commencing to bud, and will not blossom before the first of April.”
To this undeniable fact Wistaria made no response.
“Answer when thou art spoken to,” prompted her aunt, sharply.
“My lady—I do not know what to say.”
“Then you leave me to my own conjectures. You have a lover.”
“Oh no, indeed!”
“What! Flowers fresh with the morning dew in your chamber, and you with your hair unbound! Pray when did it become an honorable fashion for ladies of our rank to venture out to purchase flowers before sunrise—and in such scanty attire?”