Lavender came with a message, but he forgot it the moment he looked at the rose. His swarthy face lost all its reticence, and his eyes seemed to take fire under their overhanging eyebrows. He had a way of standing with his body bent slightly forward, his hands spread on the seat of his trousers, and when he was particularly interested or puzzled he rubbed his hands up and down with varying degrees of energy.
“She’s out, sir!”
“What do you think of her, Lavender?”
The foreman bent over the rose, and seemed to inhale something that he found intoxicatingly pleasant.
“You’ve got it, sir. She’s up above anything that has been brought out yet. Look at the way she’s opening! You can almost see the fire pouring out. It’s alive—the colour’s alive.”
Canterton smiled.
“Just like a little furnace all aglow.”
“That flower ought to make the real people rave! It’s almost too good for the blessed public. Any pinky thing does for the public.”
“I am going to send the second flower to Mr. Woolridge.”
“He’ll go down on his knees and pray to it.”