"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"
"They are very rare. I never saw but one."
"Did you say it was a lily?"
"A lily."
"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.
And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.
What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?
Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend probably is for you," she wanted to add.
Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.