“On the lawns or on the ladies?” asked Sewell.
“Both. And sowing broadcast the seeds of plain speaking. I don't know what Newport will be in another year if they all take root.”
“I dare say it will be different,” said Sewell. “I'm not sure it will be worse.” He plucked up a little spirit, and added: “Now you see of how little importance you really are in the community; you have been gone these three weeks, and your own pastor didn't know you were out of town.”
“Yes, you did, David,” interposed his wife. “I told you Miss Vane was away two weeks ago.”
“Did you? Well I forgot it immediately; the fact was of no consequence, one way or the other. How do you like that as a bit of affectionate sincerity?”
“I like it immensely,” said Miss Vane. “It's delicious. I only wish I could believe you were honest.” She leaned back and laughed into her handkerchief, while Sewell regarded her with a face in which his mortification at being laughed at was giving way to a natural pleasure at seeing Miss Vane enjoy herself. “What do you think,” she asked, “since you're in this mood of exasperated veracity—or pretend to be—of the flower charity?”
“Do you mean by the barrel, or the single sack? The Graham, or the best Haxall, or the health-food cold-blast?” asked Sewell.
Miss Vane lost her power of answering in another peal of laughter, sobering off, and breaking down again before she could say, “I mean cut flowers for patients and prisoners.”
“Oh, that kind! I don't think a single pansy would have an appreciable effect upon a burglar; perhaps a bunch of forget-me-nots might, or a few lilies of the valley carelessly arranged. As to the influence of a graceful little boutonnière, in cases of rheumatism or cholera morbus, it might be efficacious but I can't really say.”
“How perfectly cynical!” cried Miss Vane. “Don't you know how much good the flower mission has accomplished among the deserving poor? Hundreds of bouquets are distributed every day. They prevent crime.”