Again she shook her head; there was indecision in the smile, assent in the gesture. However, he perceived neither.
She took a short step forward. The wind whipped the fountain jet, and a fanlike cloud of spray drifted off across the asphalt. Then they moved on together.
Presently she said, quietly, “I believe I will carry a bunch of those violets;” and she waited for him to go back through the fountain spray, find the peddler, and rummage among the perfumed heaps in the basket. “Because,” she added, cheerfully, as he returned with the flowers, “I am going to the East Tenth Street Mission, and I meant to take some flowers, anyway.”
“If you would keep that cluster and let me send the whole basket to your mission—” he began.
But she had already started on across the wet pavement.
“I did not know you were going to give my flowers to those cripples,” he said, keeping pace with her.
“‘I MEANT TO TAKE SOME FLOWERS, ANYWAY’”
“Do you mind?” she asked, but she had not meant to say that, and she walked a little more quickly to escape the quick reply.