"It is unfolding its beauty and sweetness to other eyes than its own. So should you."
She flung it from her. Her under lip pouted as though she were about to cry.
"If I had thought that flower would have provoked so silly a remark, I would not have picked it," she said.
She retired a step. Fearful that I had offended and that she would leave me, I said boldly, "I wish you would allow me to see your flowers. I may learn some hints for my own garden from yours. I faithfully promise not to be poetical again."
"You may come in," she answered, curving her mouth into a childish smile; "Shall I open the gate?"
"Thank you, I can open it."
I entered.
"Please don't notice anything from where you stand," she exclaimed, picking up the rake; "come with me to those steps. My flowers look best from there."
She stepped forward with a light bounding gait. I could observe nothing but her exquisite shape, her yellow hair and alabaster neck. I think, had I held a pair of scissors, that not thrice the number of sylphs and gnomes which protected the perfumed locks of the matchless Belinda could have prevented me from ravishing the amber curl that floated on her back.