He bent forward to take and she bent forward to give the flowers. Her hair brushed his forehead with a peculiar influence; and when their fingers touched he noted how soft and warm her hand was. He flushed strangely. She was flushed a little, too, possibly from embarrassment—possibly from the warmth of the day, with its insinuation of spring.
He pulled his spectacles over his eyes in a comfortable discomfiture and peered at the flowers closely. And she peered, too, breathing foolishly fast. When he could not find the living letters he shook his head and felt again the soft touch of her hair.
"I can't find the words—can you? Your eyes are brighter than mine."
She bent closer and both their hands held the flowers. He looked down into her hair. It struck him that it was a remarkably beautiful idea—a woman's hair—especially hers, streaked as it was with white—silken silver. When she shook her head a snowy thread tickled his nose amusingly.
"I can't find anything like it," she confessed.
Then he said: "I've just remembered. Theocritus calls the hyacinth black—melan—and so does Vergil. These cannot be hyacinths at all."
He was bitterly disappointed. It would have been delightful to meet the flower in the flesh that he knew so well in literature. Doctor Martha answered with quiet strength:
"These are hyacinths."
"But the Greeks—"
"Didn't know everything," she said; "or perhaps they referred to another flower. But then we have dark-purple hyacinths."