INDIAN--INDIAN
I
The Merriweather fortunes had not been affected by the fall of the
Confederacy. There had been money invested in European ventures, and
when peace had come in sixty-five, the old grey stone house had again
flung wide its doors to the distinguished guests who had always honored
it, and had resumed its ancient custom of an annual harvest ball.
The ballroom, built at the back of the main house, was connected with
it by wide curving corridors, which contained the family portraits, and
which had long windows which opened out on little balconies. On the
night of the ball these balconies were lighted by round yellow
lanterns, so that the effect from the outside was that of a succession
of full moons.
The ballroom was octagonal, and canopied with a blue ceiling studded
with silver stars. There were cupids with garlands on the side walls,
and faded blue brocade hangings. Across one end of the ballroom was
the long gallery reserved for those whom the Merriweathers still called
"the tenantry," and it was here that Mary and Mrs. Flippin always sat
after baking cakes.
Mrs. Flippin had not baked the cakes to-day, nor was she in the
gallery, for her daughter, Mary, was among the guests on the ballroom
floor, and her mother's own good sense had kept her at home.
"I shall look after Miss MacVeigh," she had said. "I want Truxton to
bring you over and show you in your pretty new dress."
When they came, Madge, who was sitting up, insisted that she, too, must
see Mary. "My dear, my dear," she said, "what a wonderful frock."
"Yes," Mary said, "it is. It is one of Becky's, and she gave it to me.
And the turquoises are Mrs. Beaufort's."
Madge, who knew the whole alphabet of smart costumers, was aware of the
sophisticated perfection of that fluff of jade green tulle. The touch
of gold at the girdle, the flash of gold for the petticoat. She
guessed the price, a stiff one, and wondered that Mary should speak of
it casually as "one of Becky's."
"The turquoises are the perfect touch."
"That was Becky's idea. It seemed queer to me at first, blue with the
green. But she said if I just wore this band around my hair, and the
ring. And it does seem right, doesn't it?"
"It is perfect. What is Miss Bannister wearing?"
"Silver and white--lace, you know. The new kind, like a cobweb--with
silver underneath--and a rose-colored fan--and pearls. You should see
her pearls, Miss MacVeigh. Tell her about them, Truxton."
"Well, once upon a time they belonged to a queen. Becky's
great-grandfather on the Meredith side was a diplomat in Paris, and he
bought them, or so the story runs. Becky only wears a part of them.
The rest are in the family vaults."
Madge listened, and showed no surprise. But that account of lace and
silver, and priceless pearls did not sound in the least like the new
little girl about whom George had, in the few times that she had seen
him of late, been so silent.
"If only Flora would get well, and let me leave this beastly hole," had
been the burden of his complaint.
"I thought you liked it."
"It is well enough for a time."
"What about the new little girl?"
He was plainly embarrassed, but bluffed it out. "I wish you wouldn't
ask questions."
"I wish you wouldn't be--rude--Georgie-Porgie."
"I hate that name, Madge. Any man has a right to be rude when a woman
calls him 'Georgie-Porgie.'"
"So that's it? Well, now run along. And please don't come again until
you are nice--and smiling."
"Oh, look here, Madge."
"Run along----"
"But there isn't any place to run."
Laughter lurked in her eyes. "Oh, Georgie-Porgie--for once in your
life can't you run away?"
"Do you think you are funny?"
"Perhaps not. Smile a little, Georgie."
"How can anybody smile, with everybody sick?"
"Oh, no, we're not. We are better. I am so glad that Flora is
improving."
"Oscar thinks it is because that little old man prayed for her. Fancy
Oscar----"
Madge meditated. "Yet it might be, you know, George. There are things
in that old man's petition that transcend all our philosophy."
"Oh, you're as bad as Oscar," said George. He rose and stood frowning
on the threshold. "Well, good-bye, Madge."
"Good-bye, Georgie, and smile when you come again."
She had guessed then that something had gone wrong in the game with the
new little girl. She had a consuming curiosity to know the details.
But she could never force things with Georgie. Some day, perhaps, he
would tell her.
And now here was news indeed! She waited until young Beaufort and his
wife had driven away, and until Mrs. Flippin had time for that quiet
hour by her bedside.
"Mary looked lovely," said Madge.
"Didn't she?" Mrs. Flippin rocked and talked. "You would never have
known that dress was made for anybody but for Mary. Becky gave Mary
another dress out of a lot she had down from New York. It is yellow
organdie, made by hand and with little embroidered scallops."
Madge knew the house which made a specialty of those organdie gowns
with embroidered scallops, and she knew the price.
"But how does--Becky manage to have such lovely things?"
"Oh, she's rich," Mrs. Flippin was rocking comfortably. "You would
never know it, and nobody thinks of it much. But she's got money.
From her grandmother. And there was something in the will about having
her live out of the world as long as she could. That's why they sent
her to a convent and kept her down here as much as possible. She ain't
ever seemed to care for clothes. She could always have had anything
she wanted, but she ain't cared. She told Mary that she had a sudden
notion to have some pretty things, and she sent for them, and it was
lucky for Mary that she did. She couldn't have gone to this ball, for
there wasn't any time to get anything made. Mr. Flippin and I are
going to buy her some nice things when she goes to Richmond. But they
won't be like the things that Becky gets, of course."
Madge, listening to further details of the Meredith fortunes, wondered
how much of this Georgie knew. "Becky's mother died when she was five,
and her father two years later," Mrs. Flippin was saying. "She might
have been spoiled to death if she had been brought up as some children
are. But she has spent her winters at the convent with Sister Loretto,
and she's never worn much of anything but the uniform of the school.
You wouldn't think that she had any money to see her, would you, Miss
MacVeigh?"
"No, you wouldn't," said Madge, truthfully.
It was after nine o'clock--a warm night--with no sound but the ticking
of the clock and the insistent hum of locusts.
"Mrs. Flippin," said Madge, "I wish you'd call up Hamilton Hill and ask
for Mr. Dalton, and tell him that Miss MacVeigh would like to have him
come and see her if he has nothing else on hand."
Mrs. Flippin looked her astonishment. "To-night?"
"Oh, I am not going to receive him this way," Madge reassured her. "If
he can come, I'll get nurse to dress me and make me comfy in the
sitting-room."
Having ascertained that Dalton would be over at once, the nurse was
called, and Madge was made ready. It was a rather high-handed
proceeding, and both Mrs. Flippin and the nurse stood aghast.
The nurse protested. "You really ought not, Miss MacVeigh."
"I love to do things that I ought not to do."
"But you'll tire yourself."
"If you were my Mary," said Mrs. Flippin, severely, "I wouldn't let you
have your way----"
"I love to have my own way, Mrs. Flippin. And--I am not your
Mary"--then fearing that she had hurt the kind heart, she caught Mrs.
Flippin's hand in her own and kissed it,--"but I wish I were. You're
such a lovely mother."
Mrs. Flippin smiled at her. "I'm as near like your mother as a hen is
mother to a bluebird."
Madge, robed in the mauve gown, refused to have her hair touched. "I
like it in braids," and so when George came there she sat in the
sitting-room, all gold and mauve--a charming picture for his sulky eyes.
"Oh," she said, as he came in, in a gray sack suit, with a gray cap in
his hand, "why, you aren't even dressed for dinner!"
"Why should I be?" he demanded. "Kemp has left me."
She had expected something different. "Kemp?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He didn't give any reason. Just said he was going--and went. He said
he had intended to go before, and had only stayed until Mrs. Waterman
was better. Offered to stay on a little longer if it would embarrass
me any to have him leave. I told him that if he wanted to go, he could
get out now. And he is packing his bags."
"But what will you do without him?"
"I have wired to New York for a Jap."
"Where will Kemp go?"
"To King's Crest. To work for that lame officer--Prime."
"Oh--Major Prime? How did it happen?"
"Heaven only knows. I call it a mean trick."
"Well, of course, Kemp had a right to go if he wanted to. And perhaps
you will like a Jap better. You always said Kemp was too independent."
"He is," shortly, "but I hate to be upset. It seems as if everything
goes wrong these days. What did you want with me, Madge?"
Her eyelashes flickered as she surveyed him. "I wanted to see
you--smile, Georgie."
"You didn't bring me down here to tell me that----" But in spite of
himself the corners of his lips curled. "Oh, what's the answer,
Madge?" he said, and laughed in spite of himself.
"I wanted to talk a little about--your Becky."
His laughter died at once. "Well, I'm not going to talk about her."
"Please--I am dying of curiosity--I hear that she is very--rich,
Georgie."
"Rich?"
"Yes. She has oodles of money----"
"I don't believe it."
"But it is true, Georgie."
"Who told you?"
"Mrs. Flippin."
"It is all--rot----"
"It isn't rot, Georgie. Mrs. Flippin knows about it. Becky inherits
from her Meredith grandmother. And her grandfather is Admiral Meredith
of Nantucket, with a big house on Beacon Street in Boston. And they
all belong to the inner circle."
He stared at her. "But Becky doesn't look it. She doesn't wear rings
and things."
"'Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes'? Oh, George, did you
think it had to be like that When people had money? Why, her pearls
belonged to a queen." She told him their history.
It came back to him with a shock that he had said to Becky that the
pearls cheapened her. "If they were _real_," he had said.
"It was rather strange the way I found it out," Madge was saying.
"Mary Flippin had on the most perfect gown--with all the marks on it of
exclusive Fifth Avenue. She was going to the Merriweather ball, and
Becky is to be there."
She saw him gather himself together. "It is rather a Cinderella story,
isn't it?" he asked, with assumed lightness.
"Yes," she said, "but I thought you'd like to know."
"What if I knew already?"
She laughed and let it go at that. "I'm lonesome, Georgie, talk to
me," she said. But he was not in a mood to talk. And at last she sent
him away. And when he had gone she sat there a long time and thought
about him. There had been look in his eyes which made her almost
sorry. It seemed incredible as she came to think of it that anybody
should ever be sorry for Georgie.
II
Since that night with Becky in the garden at Huntersfield George had
been torn by conflicting emotions. He knew himself at last in love.
He knew himself beaten at the game by a little shabby girl, and a lanky
youth who had been her champion.
He would not acknowledge that the thing was ended, and in the end he
had written her a letter. He cried to Heaven that a marriage between
her and young Paine would be a crime. "How can you love him,
Becky--you are mine."
The letter had been returned unopened. His burning phrases might have
been dead ashes for all the good they had done. She had not read them.
And now Madge had told him the unbelievable thing--that Becky
Bannister, the shabby Becky of the simple cottons and the stubbed
shoes, was rich, not as Waterman was rich, flamboyantly, vulgarly, with
an eye to letting all the world know. But rich in a thoroughbred
fashion, scorning display--he knew the kind, secure in a knowledge of
the unassailable assets of birth and breeding and solid financial
standing.
No wonder young Paine wanted to marry her. George, driving through the
night, set his teeth. He was seeing Randy, poor as Job's turkey, with
Becky's money for a background.
Well, he should not have it. He should not have Becky.
George headed the car for the Merriweathers'. Becky was there, and he
was going to see Becky. How he was to see her he left to the
inspiration to the moment.
He parked his car by the road, and walked through the great stone
gates. The palatial residence was illumined from top to bottom, its
windows great squares of gold against the night. The door stood open,
but except for a servant or two there was no one in the wide hall. The
guests were dancing in the ballroom at the back, and George caught the
lilt of the music as he skirted the house, then the sound of voices,
the light laughter of the women, the deeper voices of the men.
The little balconies, lighted by the yellow lanterns, were empty. As
soon as the music stopped they would be filled with dancers seeking the
coolness of the outer air. He stood looking up, and suddenly, as if
the stage had been set, Becky stepped out on the balcony straight in
front of him, and stood under the yellow lantern. The light was dim,
but it gave to her white skin, to her lace frock, to the pink fan, a
faint golden glow. She might have been transmuted from flesh into some
fine metal. George had not heard the Major's name for her,
"Mademoiselle Midas," but he had a feeling that the little golden
figure was symbolic--here was the real Golden Girl for him--not Madge
or any other woman.
Randy was with her, back in the shadow, but unmistakable, his lean
height, the lift of his head.
George moved forward until, hidden by a bush, he was almost under the
balcony. He could catch the murmur of their voices. But not a word
that they said was intelligible.
They were talking of Mary. Her introduction to her husband's friends
had been an ordeal for Bob Flippin's daughter. But she had gone
through it simply, quietly, unaffectedly, with the Judge by her side
standing sponsor for his son's wife in chivalrous and stately fashion,
with Mrs. Beaufort at her elbow helping her over the initial small talk
of her presentation. With Truxton beaming, and with Becky drawing her
into that charmed circle of the younger set which might so easily have
shut her out. More than one of those younger folk had had it in mind
that at last year's ball Mary Flippin had sat in the gallery. But not
even the most snobbish of them would have dared to brave Becky
Bannister's displeasure. Back of her clear-eyed serenity was a spirit
which flamed and a strength which accomplished. Becky was an amiable
young person who could flash fire at unfairness or injustice or undue
assumption of superiority.
The music had stopped and the balconies were filled. George, in the
darkness, was aware of the beauty of the scene--the lantern making
yellow moons--the golden groups beneath them. Mary and Truxton with a
friend or two were in the balcony adjoining the one where Becky sat
with young Paine.
"Isn't she a dear and a darling, Randy?" Becky was saying; "and how
well she carries it off. Truxton is so proud of her, and she is so
pretty."
"She can't hold a candle to you, Becky."
"It is nice of you to say it." She leaned on the stone balustrade and
swung her fan idly.
"I am not saying it to be nice."
"Aren't you--oh----!" She gave a quick exclamation.
"What's the matter?"
"I dropped my fan."
"I'll go and get it," he said, and just then the music started.
"No," said Becky, "never mind now. This is your dance with Mary--and
she mustn't be kept waiting."
"Aren't you dancing this?"
"It is Truxton's, and I begged off. Run along, dear boy."
When he was gone she leaned over the rail. Below was a tangle of
bushes, and the white gleam of a stone bench. Beyond the bushes was a
path, and farther on a fountain. It was a rather imposing fountain,
with a Neptune in bronze riding a sea-horse, with nymphs on dolphins in
attendance. Neptune poured water from a shell which he held in his
hand, and the dolphins spouted great streams. The splash of the water
was a grateful sound in the stillness of the hot night, and the mist
which the slight breeze blew towards a bed of tuberoses seemed to bring
out their heavy fragrance. Always afterwards when Becky thought of
that night, there would come to her again that heavy scent and the
splash of streaming water.
"Becky," a voice came up from below, "I have your fan."
She peered down into the darkness, but did not speak.
"Becky, I am punished, enough, and I am--starved for you----"
"Give me my fan----"
"I want to talk to you--I must--talk to you."
"Give me my fan----"
"I can't reach----"
"You can stand on that bench."
He stood on it, and she could see his figure faintly defined.
"I am afraid I am still too far away. Lean over a bit, Becky--and I'll
hand it to you."
She stretched her white arm down into the darkness. Her hand was
caught in a strong clasp. "Becky, give me just five minutes by the
fountain."
"Let me go."
"Not until you promise that you'll come."
"I shall never promise."
"Then I shall keep your fan----"
"Keep it--I have others."
"But you will think about this one, because I have it." There was a
note of triumph in his soft laugh.
He kissed her finger-tips and reluctantly released her hand. "The fan
is mine, then, until you ask for it."
"I shall never ask."
"Who knows? Some day you may--who knows?" and he was gone.
He could not have chosen a better way in which to fire her imagination.
His voice in the dark, his laughing triumph, the daring theft of her
fan. Her heart followed him, seeing him a Conqueror even in this,
seeing him a robber with his rose-colored booty, a Robin Hood of the
Garden, a Dick Turpin among the tuberoses.
The spirit of Romance went with him. The things that Pride had done
for her looked gray and dull. She had promised to marry Randy, and
felt that she faced a somewhat sober future. Set against it was all
that George had given her, the sparkle and dash and color of his ardent
pursuit.
He was not worth a thought, yet she thought of him. She was still
thinking of him when Randy came back.
"Did you get your fan?" he asked.
"No. Never mind, Randy. I will have one of the servants look for it."
"But I do mind."
She hesitated. "Well, don't look for it now. Let's go in and join the
others. Are they going down to supper?"
Supper was served in the great Hunt Room, which was below the ballroom.
It was a historic and picturesque place, and had been the scene for
over a century of merry-making before and after the fox-hunts for which
the county was famous. There were two great fireplaces, almost hidden
to-night by the heaped-up fruits of the harvest, orange and red and
green, with cornstalks and goldenrod from the fields for decorations.
Becky found Mary alone at a small table in a corner. Truxton had left
her to forage for refreshments and Randy followed him.
"Are you having a good time, Mary?"
Mary did not answer at once. Then she said, bravely, "I don't quite
fit in, Becky. I am still an--outsider."
"Oh, Mary!"
"I am not--unhappy, and Truxton is such a dear. But I shall be glad to
get home, Becky."
"But you look so lovely, Mary, and everybody seems so kind."
"They are, but underneath I am just plain--Mary Flippin. They know
that, and so do I, and it will take them some time to forget it."
There was an anxious look in Becky's eyes. "It seems to me that you
are feeling it more than the others."
"Perhaps. And I shouldn't have said anything. Don't let Truxton know."
"Has anyone said anything to hurt you, Mary?"
"No, but when I dance with the men, I can't speak their language. I
haven't been to the places--I don't know the people. I am on the
outside."
Becky had a sudden forlorn sense that things were wrong with the whole
world. But she didn't want Mary to be unhappy.
"Truxton loves you," she said, "and you love him. Don't let anything
make you miserable when you have--that. Nothing else counts, Mary."
There was a note of passion in her voice which brought a pulsing
response from Mary.
"It _is_ the only thing that counts, Becky. How silly I am to worry."
Her young husband was coming towards her--flushed and eager, a prince
among men, and he was hers!
As he sat down beside her, her hand sought his under the table.
He looked down at her. "Happy, little girl?"
"Very happy, lover."
III
Caroline Paine was having the time of her life. She wore a new dress
of thin midnight blue which Randy had bought for her and which was very
becoming; her hair was waved and dressed, and she had Major Prime as an
attentive listener while she talked of the past and linked it with the
present.
"Of course there was a time when the men drank themselves under the
tables. Everybody calls them the 'good old times,' but I reckon they
were bad old times in some ways, weren't they? There was hot blood,
and there were duels. There's no denying it was picturesque, Major,
but it was foolish for all that. Men don't settle things now by
shooting each other, except in a big way like the war. The last duel
was fought by the old fountain out there--one of the Merriweathers met
one of the Paines. Merriweather was killed, and the girl died of a
broken heart."
"Then it was Merriweather that she loved?"
"Yes. And young Paine went abroad, and joined the British army and was
killed in India. So nobody was happy, and all because there was,
probably, a flowing bowl at the harvest ball. I am glad they don't do
it that way now. Just think of my Randy stripped to his shirt and with
pistols for two. We are more civilized in these days and I'm glad of
it."
"Are we?" said the Major; "I'm not sure. But I hope so."
Randy came by just then and spoke to them. "Are you getting everything
you want, Mother?"
"Yes, indeed. The Major looked after me. I've had salad twice, and
everything else----"
"That sounds greedy, but it isn't, not when you think of the groaning
boards of other days. Has she been telling you about them, Major?"
"Yes, she has peopled the room with ghosts----"
"Now, Major!"
"Pleasant ghosts--in lace ruffles and velvet coats, smoking long pipes
around a punch bowl; beautiful ghosts in patches and powder," he made
an expressive gesture; "they have mingled with the rest of
you--shadow-shapes of youth and loveliness."
"Well, if anybody can tell about it, Mother can," said Randy, "but I
don't believe there were ever any prettier girls than are here
to-night."
"Becky looks like an angel," Mrs. Paine stated, "but she's pale, Randy."
"She is tired, Mother. I think she ought to go home. I shall try to
make her when I come back. She dropped her fan and I am going to get
it."
He had not told Becky where he was going. He had slipped away--his
mind intent on regaining her property. But when he reached the bushes
and flashed his pocket-light on the ground beneath, there was no fan.
It must have fallen here. He was sure he had made no mistake.
He decided finally that someone else had found it. It seemed unlikely,
however, for the spot was remote, and the thickness of the bushes
offered a barrier to anyone strolling casually through the grounds.
He went slowly back to the house. Ever since that night when Becky had
said she would marry him he had lived in a dream. They were pledged to
each other, yet she did not love him. How could he take her? And
again, how could he give her up? She had offered herself freely, and
he wanted her in his future. And there was a fighting chance. He had
youth and courage and a love for her he challenged any man to match.
Why not? Was it beyond the bounds of reason that some day he could
make Becky love him?
They had agreed that no one was to be told. "Not until I come back
from Nantucket," Becky had stipulated.
"By that time you won't want me, my dear."
"Well, I shan't if you talk like that," Becky had said with some spirit.
"Like what?"
"As if I were a queen and you were a slave. When you were a little boy
you bossed me, Randy."
There had been a gleam in his eye. "I may again."
He wondered if, after all, that would be the way to win her. Yet he
shrank from playing a game. When she came to him, if she ever came, it
must be because she found something in him that was love-worthy. At
least he could make himself worthy of love, whether she ever came to
him or not.
He stopped by the fountain; just beyond it the long windows of the Hunt
Room opened out upon the lawn. The light lay in golden squares upon
the grass. Randy, still in the shadow, stood for a moment looking in.
There were long tables and little ones, kaleidoscopic color, movement
and light, and Becky back in her corner in the midst of a gay group.
He was aware, suddenly, that he was not the only one who watched. Half
hidden by the shadows of one of the great pillars of the lower porch
was a man in light flannels and a gray cap.
He was not skulking, and indeed he seemed to have a splendid
indifference to discovery. He was staring at Becky and in his hand, a
blaze of lovely color against his coat, was Becky's fan!
Randy took a step forward. George turned and saw him.
"I was looking for that," Randy said, and held out his hand for the fan.
But Dalton did not give it to him. "She knows I have it."
"How could she know?" Randy demanded; "she dropped it from the balcony."
"And I was under the balcony"--George's laugh was tantalising,--"a
patient Romeo."
"You picked it up."
"I picked it up. And she knew that I did. Didn't she tell you?"
She had not told him. He remembered now her unwillingness to have him
search, for it.
He had no answer for George. But again he held out his hand.
"She will be glad to get it. Will you give it to me?"
"She told me I might--keep it."
"Keep it----?"
"For remembrance."
There was a tense pause. "If that is true," said Randy, "there is, of
course, nothing else for me to say."
He turned to go, but George stopped him. "Wait a minute. You are
going to marry her?"
"Yes."
"And she is very--rich."
"Her money does not enter into the matter."
"Some people might think it did. There are those who might be unkind
enough to call you a--fortune-hunter."
"I shall be called nothing of the kind by those who know me."
"But there are so many who don't know you."
"I wonder," said Randy, fiercely, "why I am staying here and letting
you say such things to me. There is nothing you can say which can hurt
me. Becky knows--God knows, that I wish she were as poor as poverty.
Perhaps money doesn't mean as much to us as it does to yon. I wish I
had it, yes--so that I could give it to her. But love for us means a
tent in the desert--a hut on a mountain--it can never mean what we
could buy with money."
"Does love mean to her," George's tone was incisive, "a tent in the
desert, a hut on a mountain?"
Randy's anger flamed. "I think," he said, "that I should beg Becky's
pardon for bringing her name into this at all---- And now, will you
give me her fan?"
"When she asks for it--yes."
Randy was breathing heavily. "Will you give me her--fan----"
The mist from the fountain blew cool against his hot cheeks. The water
which old Neptune poured from his shell flashed white under the stars.
"Let her ask for it----" George's laugh was light.
It was that laugh which made Randy see red. He caught George's wrists
suddenly in his hands. "Drop it."
George stopped laughing. "Let her ask for it," he said again.
Randy twisted the wrists. It was a cruel trick. But his Indian blood
was uppermost.
"Drop it," he said, with another twist, and the fan fell.
But Randy was not satisfied. "Do you think," he said, "that I am
through with you? What you need is tar and feathers, but failing
that----" he did not finish his sentence. He caught George around the
body and began to push him back towards the fountain.
George fought doggedly--but Randy was strong with the muscular strength
of youth and months of military training.
"I'll kill you for this," George kept saying.
"No," said Randy, conserving his breath, "they don't--do
it--in--these--days----"
He had Dalton now at the rim and with a final effort of strength he
lifted him--there was a splash, and into the deeps of the great basin
went George, while the bronze Neptune, and the bronze dolphins, and the
nymphs with flowing hair, splashed and spouted a welcoming chorus that
drowned his cry!
Randy, head up, eyes shining, marched into the house and had a servant
brush him off and powder a scratch on his chin; then he went
down-stairs to the Hunt Room and strode across the room until he came
to where Becky sat in her corner.
"I found your fan," he told her, and laid it, a blaze of lovely color,
on the table in front of her.