"But mayn't I call for her?" the young man suggested at once. "You know she would much rather walk down than drive."
"Oh, very well, very well, if you don't mind," said Mr. Bethune, with a lofty condescension—or indifference; while Maisrie, instead of being in the least confused by this proposal, looked up with perfectly frank and pleased eyes, apparently giving him a little message of thanks.
Nor was she in the least embarrassed on the following evening, when he was ushered upstairs by the landlady's daughter. Maisrie was alone in the little parlour, ready-dressed except as regarded her gloves, and she was putting a final touch to the few flowers with which she had adorned the table.
"Good evening," said she, quite placidly. "I will be with you in a moment, as soon as I have dried my fingers."
She disappeared for a second, and returned. He hesitated before accompanying her to the door.
"Won't you give me one of those flowers?" said he, rather breathlessly.
She seemed a little surprised.
"Now that I think of it," she said, "I have never seen you wear a flower in your coat, as other gentlemen do. And I'm afraid there isn't one here nearly fine enough—"
"If you were to give me a flower, I should not destroy it by wearing it in my coat!" said he.
"Oh, merely a flower?" she asked. She went to the table. "Will this one do?"