“I was waiting for you,” he said, “I saw you in the car.” Turning to the automobile, he stripped the tissue paper from a cluster of dark red roses with the priceless long stems of which Lise used to rave when she worked in the flower store. And he held the flowers against her suit her new suit she had worn for this meeting.
“Oh,” she cried, taking a deep, intoxicating breath of their fragrance. “You brought these—for me?”
“From Boston—my beauty!”
“But I can't wear all of them!”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Haven't you a pin?”
She produced one, attaching them with a gesture that seemed habitual, though the thought of their value-revealing in some degree her own worth in his eyes-unnerved her. She was warmly conscious of his gaze. Then he turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a bright tweed motor coat warmly lined.
“Oh, no!” she protested, drawing back. “I'll—I'll be warm enough.” But laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the sleeves, his fingers pressing against her. Overcome by shyness, she drew away from him.
“I made a pretty good guess at the size—didn't I, Janet?” he cried, delightedly surveying her. “I couldn't forget it!” His glance grew more concentrated, warmer, penetrating.
“You mustn't look at me like that!” she pleaded with lowered eyes.
“Why not—you're mine—aren't you? You're mine, now.”