And they pushed off in the punt.
She was glad to be on the free land again. She went along the bank
towards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond,
tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and
there. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically?
'Look,' he said, 'your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they
are a convoy of rafts.'
Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy
bright little cotillion on the dark clear water. Their gay bright
candour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost in
tears.
'Why are they so lovely,' she cried. 'Why do I think them so lovely?'
'They are nice flowers,' he said, her emotional tones putting a
constraint on him.
'You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, become
individual. Don't the botanists put it highest in the line of
development? I believe they do.'
'The compositae, yes, I think so,' said Ursula, who was never very sure
of anything.
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