“Yes, he gave me the white heather; but what of that? He did not tell me to put it behind my pillow—that was just a silly fancy of mine. We women are such fools, Janet. We have such an inordinate craving for love, that we magnify the slightest attention of any man for whom we possess regard, until we vainly imagine that we are really loved by him. That is what I’ve been doing—giving way to imagination. I’ve been indulging in the romantic day-dreams of a girl of seventeen.”
A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes.
Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead for mercy.
“How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought you were never coming down. We’ve had breakfast ages ago; and Uncle Bexley and the others, all except Mr. Karne, are already out on the moors.”
“How is it Mr. Karne has not gone?” Lady Marjorie asked wonderingly; for Herbert was an enthusiastic sportsman.
“I don’t know. He is having a smoke in the lounge. P’raps he’s waiting to give you your present. I mustn’t tell you what it is—it’s a surprise, you know,—but I’m sure you will like it awf’lly. Uncle says it’s a very striking likeness of me.”
“Tut-tut, Master Bobbie,” put in Janet, warningly. “You are letting the cat out of the bag;” and the boy promptly clapped his hand to his lips.
Lady Marjorie found Karne deep in thought, watching with half-closed eyes the smoke as it curled upwards from his cigar.
He rose at her approach, and having wished her many happy returns of the day, presented her with a beautifully painted pastel of her boy.
Her face lit up with pleasure as she thanked him, for the gift had evidently occasioned him much thought.