Frank remembered that evening well.
‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep time: what were you dreaming about?’
‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? Let us go into the conservatory for a minute.’
The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just inside, and under the orange tree.
‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical evening this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must sing that duet again, and sing it properly.’
He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, and gave it to her.
‘That is a pledge. It is very good of you.’
She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it; rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily.
‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but mind, I shall keep this flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall return it faded and withered.’
‘Yes, I will come.’