'But I won't get them till tomorrow,' she said.
'Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then--'
Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. She
again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory,
informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of
what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected.
'What do you want these for?' Wilson asked.
'I want them,' she said. She wished servants did not ask questions.
'Ay, you've said as much. But what do you want them for, for
decoration, or to send away, or what?'
'I want them for a presentation bouquet.'
'A presentation bouquet! Who's coming then?--the Duchess of Portland?'
'No.'
'Oh, not her? Well you'll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the
things you've mentioned into your bouquet.'
'Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.'
'You do! Then there's no more to be said.'
The next day Winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and holding a
gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in the
schoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival.
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