This is the sort of pleasant thing that Honor dislikes: whose memory or anticipation is always sweeter than the actual experience. She did not look at him this time, but still, toying with her spoon and glass, she answered slowly:
"Because—I like it best of all the flowers—"
"On account of its—" interrupted Vivian, and then paused, looked at her, and waited,
"Yes, exactly," Honor said, looking straight into his deep eyes, this time. "It is on that very account."
"I was going to say—'meaning'—" he almost whispered back.
"Well—?" Honor drawled indifferently.
"Take it off then—it is the only unbecoming thing about you."
"I infer," returned Honor, slightly arching her brows, "that you expect me to obey your word of command?"
"Which I spoke without the meanest right to do so, I suppose?" Vivian said humbly, "in that case, I cancel it and apologize."
"That is still, almost another command," she retorted provokingly.