Part 32 (1/2)
She laughed.
”I like to see you on your knees, you look so funny!” and as she spoke she flung a clove carnation at him. ”Does n't it smell good?”
”Too good Oh, Antonia! why are you doing this?”
”Why am I doing what?”
”Don't you know what you are doing?”
”Why, picking flowers!” and once more she was back, bending and sniffing at the blossoms.
”That's enough.”
”Oh no,” she called; ”it's not not nearly.
”Keep on putting them together, if you love me.”
”You know I love you,” answered Shelton, in a smothered voice.
Antonia gazed at him across her shoulder; puzzled and inquiring was her face.
”I'm not a bit like you,” she said. ”What will you have for your room?”
”Choose!”
”Cornflowers and clove pinks. Poppies are too frivolous, and pinks too--”
”White,” said Shelton.
”And mignonette too hard and--”
”Sweet. Why cornflowers?”
Antonia stood before him with her hands against her sides; her figure was so slim and young, her face uncertain and so grave.
”Because they're dark and deep.”
”And why clove pinks?”
Antonia did not answer.
”And why clove pinks?”
”Because,” she said, and, flus.h.i.+ng, touched a bee that had settled on her skirt, ”because of something in you I don't understand.”
”Ah! And what flowers shall t give YOU?”
She put her hands behind her.