"
"I'll try to survive not having been asked. But I'm glad
you wore the roses, Dora."
"I dropped one, and Phil Carter wanted to keep it. He's
so silly!"
"Did you--did you let him keep it?"
"Lorne Murchison! Do you think I'd let any man keep a
rose I'd been wearing?"
He looked at her, suddenly emboldened. "I don't know
about roses, Dora, but pansies--those are awfully nice
ones in your dress. I'm very fond of pansies; couldn't
you spare me one? I wouldn't ask for a rose, but a
pansy--"
His eyes were more ardent than what he found to say.
Beneath them Dora grew delicately pink. The pansies
drooped a little; she put her slender fingers under one,
and lifted its petals.
"It's too faded for your buttonhole," she said.
"It needn't stay in my buttonhole. I know lots of other
places!" he begged.
Dora considered the pansy again, then she pulled it slowly
out, and the young man got up and went over to her,
proffering the lapel of his coat.
"It spoils the bunch," she said prettily. "If I give you
this you will have to give me something to take its place."
"I will," said Lorne.
"I know it will be something better," said Dora, and
there was a little effort in her composure. "You send
people such beautiful flowers, Lorne."
She rose beside him as she spoke, graceful and fair, to
fasten it in; and it was his hand that shook.
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