But you
can't help it; you were made that way."
If Richard Kendrick could have seen her standing there, staring down at
the flower he had picked, he would have found it harder than ever to go
on his appointed course. For this was what she was thinking:
"I ought--I ought--to like best the white flowers of intellect--and
ability--and training--and every sort of fitness. I try and try to like
them best. But, oh!--they are so white--compared with this red, red one.
I like the white ones; they are pure and cool and beautiful. But--the
red one is warm, warm! Oh, I don't know--I don't know. And how am I
going to know? Tell me that, red flower. Did he pick you? Shall I keep
you--on the doubt? Well--but not where you will show. Yes, I'll keep
you, but away down in the middle, where no one will see you, and where
you won't distract my attention from the beautiful white flowers that
are so different from you."
She bent over the bowlful of snowy spring blossoms, drew them apart, and
sunk the red flower deep among them, drawing them together again so that
not a hint of their alien brother should show against their whiteness.
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