“Yes, the flowers are nice,” commented Berenice.
“Wait; I’ll get some for you. It’s against the rules, but they can’t do more than send me away, and that’s what I want.”
“Berenice! Come back here!”
It was Mrs. Carter calling.
The daughter was gone in a fling of graceful lines and flounces. “Now what do you make of her?” asked Mrs. Carter, turning to her friend.
“Youth, individuality, energy—a hundred things. I see nothing wrong with her.”
“If I could only see to it that she had her opportunities unspoiled.”
Already Berenice was returning, a subject for an artist in almost studied lines. Her arms were full of sweet-peas and roses which she had ruthlessly gathered.
“You wilful girl!” scolded her mother, indulgently. “I shall have to go and explain to your superiors. Whatever shall I do with her, Mr. Cowperwood?”
“Load her with daisy chains and transport her to Cytherea,” commented Cowperwood, who had once visited this romantic isle, and therefore knew its significance.