Cautiously, very cautiously, a much-dishevelled William crept from the hen-house and round the side of the house. Here he found a locked side-gate over which he climbed, and very quietly he glided down to the front gate and to the road.
“Where’s William this evening?” said Mrs. Brown. “I do hope he won’t stay out after his bed-time.”
“Oh, I’ve just met him,” said Ethel. “He was going up to his bedroom. He was covered with hen feathers and holding a bunch of syringa.”
“Mad!” sighed his father. “Mad! mad! mad!”
The next morning William laid a bunch of syringa upon Miss Drew’s desk. He performed the offering with an air of quiet, manly pride. Miss Drew recoiled.
“Not syringa, William. I simply can’t bear the smell!”
William gazed at her in silent astonishment for a few moments.
Then: “But you said ... you said ... you said you were fond of syringa an’ that you’d like to have them.”
“Did I say syringa?” said Miss Drew vaguely. “I meant guelder roses.”
William’s gaze was one of stony contempt.