"They can't help it," she answered confidently.

"Just as some people," he said in a low tone, "can't help taking into
their lives some beautiful hue born of mere casual contact with some
one, some time."

"What a poetical sentiment!" she laughed. "Really, it deserves a
reward." As he spoke, she plucked a few flowers and held them out in her
palm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints.

Erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of the
flowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, red
thing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? As through a
mist he saw a spark--where?

"Only one?" she said in the same tone. "You are modest. And you don't
even condescend to put it in your coat?"

He did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something so
compelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. He
seemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; she
drew back slightly. The girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicion
of faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, in
the least degree, perplexed. The man's breast suddenly stirred; a
breath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firm
lips. He looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, the
arrangement of lines one expected.

When his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he had
first stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon.