"Mignonette is sweet," said Mabel.
"Roses are roses," said Kathleen.
"Carnations are tuppence," said Jimmy; and Gerald, sniffing
among the bunches of tightly-tied tea-roses, agreed that this settled
it.
So the carnations were bought, a bunch of yellow ones, like
sulphur, a bunch of white ones like clotted cream, and a bunch of
red ones like the cheeks of the doll that Kathleen never played
with. They took the carnations home, and Kathleen's green
hair-ribbon came in beautifully for tying them up, which was
hastily done on the doorstep.
Then discreetly Gerald knocked at the door of the drawing-room,
where Mademoiselle seemed to sit all day.
"Entrez!" came her voice; and Gerald entered. She was not
reading, as usual, but bent over a sketch-book; on the table was an
open colour-box of un-English appearance, and a box of that
slate-coloured liquid so familiar alike to the greatest artist in
watercolours and to the humblest child with a sixpenny paintbox.
"With all of our loves," said Gerald, laying the flowers down
suddenly before her.
"But it is that you are a dear child. For this it must that I embrace
you no?" And before Gerald could explain that he was too old, she
kissed him with little quick French pecks on the two cheeks.
"Are you painting?" he asked hurriedly, to hide his annoyance at
being treated like a baby.
"I achieve a sketch of yesterday," she answered; and before he had
time to wonder what yesterday would look like in a picture she
showed him a beautiful and exact sketch of Yalding Towers.
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