The change in his appearance would have
made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a
hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of
gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to
notify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet.
After he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly:
"It's all pansies; it must be hers!"
Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold."
"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked.
"No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back."
"I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it
instantly.
But may I not at least have a single flower?"
Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the
bouquet.
"Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you."
"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed
with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.
"Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the
world!
"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me,
but I wish to show her that I believe in her still.
Pages:
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765