“Are you ’umble, Miss Vane?”
The question was quite unexpected, and the girl hesitated for a moment as she descended from the abstract to the concrete.
“I hope I am,” she said at length.
“But people say as ’ow you are proud an’ stuck hup.”
“Do they Wilfred? Who say that?”
“Riles an’ Mrs. Riles. She says as ’ow you’re a ’ot-’ouse plant, fer hornament more than use.”
“Dear me, that is too bad,” laughed the girl, and the ripple of her voice was good to hear. Even London knew that it was—he couldn’t describe it—but different from any other voice. “But, supposing Mrs. Riles is right, don’t you think that to be an ornament is to be useful? Look at that tiger lily; is it not beautiful? But of what use is it?”
“Hi guess hit haint no use,” said the boy. “But when Hi go over the prairie after the cattle hoften Hi pull a lily, hand Hi loike to walk w’ere they grow.”
“And if God took all the beautiful flowers, and the wonderful clouds, and the glorious sunsets and dawns, and the singing birds, and the weep of the wind as it blows up out of the dark, and—and the beautiful people out of the world, it wouldn’t be such a nice place to live in, would it?”
“No, because ’Ee would ’ave to take you, Miss Vane.”