She held in her hand a small
white rose which she had plucked in the tiny garden here in the middle
of London. It was not a very fine specimen, but it was a rose, and she
had said in answer to his depreciatory glance: "But you must see it when
I have washed it. One has to wash London flowers."
Then . . . the miracle happened. Michael, with the hand that had just
taken hers, stroked a petal of this prized vegetable, with no thought in
his mind stronger than the thoughts that had been indigenous there since
Christmas. As his finger first touched the rim of the town-bred petals,
undersized yet not quite lacking in "rose-quality," he had intended
nothing more than to salute the flower, as Sylvia made her apology for
it. "One has to wash London flowers." But as he touched it he looked
up at her, and the quiet, usual song of his thoughts towards her grew
suddenly loud and stupefyingly sweet. It was as if from the vacant
hive-door the bees swarmed. In her eyes, as they met his, he thought
he saw an expectancy, a welcome, and his hand, instead of stroking the
rose-petals, closed on the rose and on the hand that held it, and kept
them close imprisoned and strongly gripped. He could not remember if he
had spoken any word, but he had seen that in her face which rendered all
speech unnecessary, and, knowing in the bones and the blood of him that
he was right, he kissed her.
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