color in her hair again seemed to catch and hold his glance. "But," with
a sudden change of tone, "will you explain something to me, Miss Wray?
Those flowers you wear--surely they are primroses, and yet--"

"Crimson," said the girl. "You find that strange. It is very simple. If
you will come with me a moment." She rose, quickly crossed the room to a
door at the back, and Steele, following, found himself in a large
conservatory that looked out upon an agreeable, if rather restricted,
prospect of green garden. Several of the windows of the glass addition
were open and the warm sunshine and air entered. A butterfly was
fluttering within; in a corner, a bee busied himself buzzing loudly
between flowers and sips of saccharine sweetness. Jocelyn Wray stepped
in its direction, stooped. The sunlight touched the white neck, where
spirals of gold nestled, and fell over her gown in soft, shifting waves.

"You see?" She threw over her shoulder a glance at him; he looked down
at primroses, pale yellow; a few near-by were half-red, or spotted with
crimson; others, still, were the color of those that nodded in her hair.
"You can imagine how it has come about?"

He regarded a great bunch of clustering red roses--the winged marauder
hovering noisily over. "I think I can guess. The bees have carried the
hue of the roses to them."

"Hue!" cried the girl, with light scorn. "What a prosaic way to express
it! Say the soul, the heart's blood. Some of the primroses have yielded
only a little; others have been transformed."

"You think, then, some flowers may be much influenced by others?"