But as it vouchsafed no information she gathered
up the whole mass and disposed it in a big crystal bowl which she set
upon a small table by an open window.
"If I thought that really was the bunch he picked," said she to herself,
"I should consider he had broken his promise and I should feel obliged
to throw it away. Perhaps I'd better do it anyhow. Yet--it seems a pity
to throw away such a beautiful bowlful of white and green, and--very
likely they were of Ted's picking after all. But I don't like that one
red one against all the white."
She laid fingers upon it to draw it out. But she did not draw it out. "I
wonder if that represents the one thing I'm afraid of?" she considered
whimsically. "What does his majesty mean--himself? Or--myself?
Or--of--of--Yes, I suppose that's it! Am I afraid of it?"
She stood staring down at the one deep red flower, the biggest, finest
bloom of them all. It really did not belong there with the others in
their cool, chaste whiteness. Quite suddenly she drew it out. She made
the motion of throwing it out the window, but it seemed to cling to her
fingers.
"Poor little flower," said she softly, "why should you have to go?
Perhaps you're sorry because you're not white like the rest.
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