“The roses on my side are charmingly fresh,” responded Burton, “but the fact is I have a desire for that especial spray.”
“Perhaps because stolen fruit is sweetest?” she asked maliciously.
“Not altogether for that reason,” he smiled. “There are certain associations connected with it that endear it.”
“Indeed?” She held it gingerly by the extreme tip of the stem and reached towards the fence. He accepted it gravely and thanked her.
“Please don’t,” she said; “I’m not sure that I am not compounding a felony.”
“I’m convinced that you are needlessly alarmed,” he answered. “You have only presented me with what was yours to give.”
But she shook her head. “Oh, no, not at all! I discovered you stealing”—this with awful emphasis—“my roses, and I came to your aid merely because I feared that if I did not you would have a sunstroke.”
“Stealing is an unpleasant word,” he said tentatively. “Couldn’t you substitute borrowing?”
“Borrowing?” The brown eyes opened very wide. “But I don’t believe it would be true.”