Wondering greatly at the headlong manner in which he had fallen at her feet, he forced himself to sleep, anxious to bring the day and meet his lady on her way to work.
It was a foggy morning, and she came towards him through a grey mist which had bedewed her clothes and hair. Her cheeks were a pale pink, her eyes were very bright, and at the sight of her he felt as though he had been bathing in some rare air where prejudices could be blown away, and youth regained and strengthened.
"May I be the first to wish you a very happy New Year?" he said.
"You are too late. Bessie, our domestic drudge and best friend, was the first; then Uncle George. He seemed to have very little hope. You are the third--and thank you. And a happy New Year to you, too."
"Yes. I can smell the spring coming through the mist. And soon there'll be snowdrops and crocuses."
"You are fond of flowers?" His words were more a statement than a question, and his implied sureness of her love for beauty hampered while it pleased her.
She shook her shoulders and spoke quickly. "Yes, but I like spring better. I like the smell of the wind and the way the earth lets things through. It's so eager!"
She looked at him acutely. "It's not so pushing, is it? More resigned--and all the dying things have the respectability of age. But my buds insist on coming out. They're active, and your autumn leaves are passive: they just flutter down, poor things. The buds for me!"
He thought she was like the spring herself, and was immediately converted to her view. "I shall watch spring this year with different eyes," he said, and the blood ran swiftly, joyously in her veins.
He left her at the foot of the broad steps leading to the front door, but they met at lunch, and when Theresa went home that evening she found a sheaf of flowers awaiting her.
"Who brought them, Bessie?" she asked, fingering them softly, for they were the flowers a lover chooses--roses, lilies and violets, delicate and sweet-scented things.
"A tall young feller--strange to me. 'Andsome."
"I'd better put them in water," Theresa said quickly, and carried them upstairs.
The next day was long in coming, yet she would have urged the night to stay. It was glorious to be courted, but she was half ashamed. If a man had picked her up without question and borne her away, she would have struggled fiercely, but she would have been without this strange shrinking of the mind. She was uncertain of her position: this wordless gift of flowers affected her like a lurking enemy. Moreover, though of all things she loved power, and though people sometimes seemed to her like pawns she could move at will, she suddenly felt herself unfitted to receive such gentle homage. It made her feel large and clumsy: remembering Morton's quiet voice, her own sounded too loud and rough, and she was aware again of his fastidious mind. Hers was not fastidious: she liked the truth, whatever the garb it wore, and for knowledge of life she had a thirst ready for the bitterest dregs. Had he known that, would he have sent those flowers? And had he sent the flowers? Should she thank him or be silent? To thank him would surely be to assume too much, yet she wished to thank him, for she loved the flowers. She could see them gleaming faintly as they stood on the table by her bed, and their scent stole towards her. She put out a hand and touched them. They were like friends. But she would be silent: she had no choice, and it would be sweeter so: unnamed, they would lie the closer in her heart.