“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Dolly glanced round, straightened her shoulders, swept her basket to the floor, and exposed a three-legged milking-stool. “There’s a chair for you; you must not stand. I’m making scent.”
“How enthralling! Mayn’t I help?”
“Wait till you see how I do it,” quoth prudent Dolly.
Lucian unwound a yard and a half of comforter, deposited his mackintosh, umbrella, and goloshes, and sat down to watch, tucking his long legs under the stool, and tossing back his shaggy brown hair. Dolly spread the white paste thickly and evenly over the glass in two of the frames. Next she filled her hands with violets, decapitated the pretty blossoms, and sprinkled them broadcast on the pomade till the frame was full to the brim; she capped that frame with the second and pressed them close, so that they formed a box three inches deep, enclosing the violets between two layers of pomade; they were then ready to be put aside for the time being. She would not trust Lucian to spread the pomade, but she allowed him to behead the violets for her, and was grateful; for the quicker she was the fresher were the violets, and the more valuable the pomade made from them. Thrifty Dolly made a small income by her perfumes.
Her dress, between lavender and blue, just matched the blue chicory which borders August cornfields; and the cluster of violets which she had tucked into her bosom agreed with its color. She was bareheaded, and her hair glistened even in shadow like copper veined with gold. She was not thinking of herself, but of her violets, and Lucian’s eyes were fixed on her to the hindrance of his work.
“You’re leaving stalks on the flowers,” Dolly pointed out.
“I couldn’t help it. My eyes were all for you.”
“Don’t,” said Dolly, brusquely.
“It’s really the correct thing to say; besides, it’s the truth.”
“I don’t like it, from you. How is your cough?”