He laid his hand over the restless fingers, holding them in a sure,
firm clasp that brought back vividly to her mind the remembrance of
that day when he had helped her up the steps of the quayside at
Crailing.
"Diana"--his voice deepened a little--"am I responsible for any of the
weeds in your garden?"
Her hand trembled a little under his. After a moment she threw back
her head defiantly and met his glance.
"Perhaps there's a stinging-nettle or two labelled with your name," she
answered lightly. "The Nettlewort Erringtonia," she added, smiling.
Diana was growing up rapidly.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you
that I'm sorry--that I'd uproot them if I could?"
She looked away from him in silence. He could not see her expression,
only the pure outline of her cheek and a little pulse that was beating
rapidly in her throat.
With a sudden, impetuous movement he released her hand, almost flinging
it from him.
"My application for the post of gardener is refused, I see," he said.
"And quite rightly, too. It was great presumption on my part. After
all"--with bitter mockery--"what are a handful of nettles in the garden
of a _prima donna_? They'll soon be stifled beneath the wreaths of
laurel and bouquets that the world will throw you. You'll never even
feel their sting."
"You are wrong," said Diana, very low, "quite wrong.
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