"Mr. Preston had no business to speak as if he had forestalled you,"
said Cynthia. "It came just as we were ready to go, and I put it into
the fire directly."
"Cynthia, my dear love!" said Mrs. Gibson (who had never heard of the
fate of the flowers until now), "what an idea of yourself you will
give to Mr. Osborne Hamley; but, to be sure, I can quite understand
it. You inherit my feeling--my prejudice--sentimental I grant,
against bought flowers."
Cynthia was silent for a moment; then she said, "I used some of
your flowers, Mr. Hamley, to dress Molly's hair. It was a great
temptation, for the colour so exactly matched her coral ornaments;
but I believe she thought it treacherous to disturb the arrangement,
so I ought to take all the blame on myself."
"The arrangement was my brother's, as I told you; but I am sure he
would have preferred seeing them in Miss Gibson's hair rather than
in the blazing fire. Mr. Preston comes far the worst off." Osborne
was rather amused at the whole affair, and would have liked to probe
Cynthia's motives a little farther. He did not hear Molly saying in
as soft a voice as if she were talking to herself, "I wore mine just
as they were sent," for Mrs. Gibson came in with a total change of
subject.
"Speaking of lilies of the valley, is it true that they grow wild
in Hurst Wood? It is not the season for them to be in flower yet;
but when it is, I think we must take a walk there--with our luncheon
in a basket--a little picnic in fact. You'll join us, won't you?"
turning to Osborne. "I think it's a charming plan! You could ride to
Hollingford and put up your horse here, and we could have a long day
in the woods and all come home to dinner--dinner with a basket of
lilies in the middle of the table!"
"I should like it very much," said Osborne; "but I may not be at
home. Roger is more likely to be here, I believe, at that time--a
month hence." He was thinking of the visit to London to sell
his poems, and the run down to Winchester which he anticipated
afterwards--the end of May had been the period fixed for this
pleasure for some time, not merely in his own mind, but in writing to
his wife.
"Oh, but you must be with us! We must wait for Mr. Osborne Hamley,
must not we, Cynthia?"
"I'm afraid the lilies won't wait," replied Cynthia.
"Well, then, we must put it off till dog-rose and honey-suckle time.
You will be at home then, won't you? or does the London season
present too many attractions?"