"Oh, no of course not!" Florence said; "it's of no sort of consequence I don't want them in the least, my dear. I wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!"
Fleda secretly had mooted the same question, and was very well pleased not to have it put to the proof. She took the flowers up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eyesore to her friends; placed them in water, and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. She again thought she would take the first opportunity of going home. How strange! out of their abundance of tributary flowers, to grudge her this one bunch! To be sure, it was a magnificent one. The flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that Fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. She knew that only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "How very kind!" presently quite supplanted "How very strange!" "How exactly like him! and how singular that Mrs. Evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have come from Mr. Thorn!" It was a moral impossibility that he should have put such a bunch of flowers together; while to Fleda's eye they so bore the impress of another person's character, that she had absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. She hung over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling, and she was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from. each leaf and bud. What a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to Fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. So she found it this morning. An hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of good; and, when she dressed herself and went down to the drawing-room, her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable reminder. And she thought that still snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in New York.
Florence went to Mrs. Decatur's; but Constance, according to her avowed determination, remained at home to see the fun. Fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see.
But, a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening, Mr. Carleton walked in, followed very soon by Mr. Thorn. Constance and Mrs. Evelyn were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well give it full play, promised to last the evening; and Fleda, all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table, and endeavoured to bury herself in it. But ears could not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of Mrs. Evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her.
"Mr. Thorn," said the lady, in her smoothest manner, "are you a lover of floriculture, Sir?"
"Can't say that I am, Mrs. Evelyn except as practised by others."
"Then you are not a connoisseur in roses? Miss Ringgan's happy lot sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her what they are I thought you might know. Oh, they are not here," said Mrs. Evelyn, as she noticed the gentleman's look round the room; "Miss Ringgan judges them too precious for any eyes but her own. Fleda, my dear, wont you bring down your roses to let Mr. Thorn tell us their names?"
"I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me, Mrs. Evelyn I believe he would find it a puzzling task."
"The surest way, Mrs. Evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for information," said Thorn, drily.
"If I could get at it," said Mrs. Evelyn (Fleda knew, with quivering lips) "but it seems to me I might as well try to find the Dead Sea!"