“I don’t want boots, Mrs. Lear, I don’t want nothing on the earth but my satin sash so I can dance with her in the Flora.  I want it more than to save my soul, that I do; I’ll go through anything to get it.  I’ll work like ten maids for ’ee and for anyone else that’ll have me, so as I can dance in the Flora...”

“Hush, hush,” cried the good woman, justly scandalised by such unbalanced ravings from a maid of fifteen who should have had nothing but modesty in her mouth; “you mustn’t say such wicked things or I can’t stay here and listen to en.”

Fear attacked Loveday, not for her own impious words, but lest she had shocked Mrs. Lear past helping.

“Mrs. Lear,” she said urgently, “I don’t mean any wickedness, but indeed I can’t sufficiently tell ’ee what it means to me to get my length of riband and dance in the Flora come May.  I do believe I’ll die if I don’t.  I don’t know how to find words to tell ’ee, but ’tes more to me than a white riband and a shaking of feet down Bugletown streets, ’tes my life, I do believe ...”  She added no word of Flora Le Pettit, you perceive, but got a secret joy from being able to use her name thus unreproved in mention of the dance ... and who that has been a lover will not understand this?

“I would have had ’ee up here to help now that Primrose is so wisht,” replied Mrs. Lear doubtfully, “but simmingly only yesterday you had words, and indeed it was ill done of you, Loveday Strick, towards one in her condition, as you do very well knaw.”

Loveday drooped her head.  Idle to protest to Mrs. Lear that she had not been the first in fault.  She waited breathless, the beating of her heart almost choking her.  Mrs. Lear went on.

“If only Primrose could be made to overlook it, then I’ll have ’ee and welcome, Loveday, and pay you a florin a week too, which would soon add up to enough.  I’d be glad for ’ee to stay on after the Flora too, for Primrose’s time’ll be near.”

Loveday had no interest in what happened after the dance.  Life would be all golden ever after, something wonderful and new would certainly begin; it was to mark the great division in her life, but gratitude and the caution born of years of slights held her silent on that subject to the good Mrs. Lear.

“Wait ’ee here,” Mrs. Lear bade her, and herself went back into the kitchen.  She was gone some minutes, that to Loveday dragged as weeks, though when she reappeared Loveday felt that the time of waiting had gone too soon, and she wished for it to begin once more, so much she dreaded to ask what had been said.  Mrs. Lear spared her the need for questioning.

“’Tes no manner of use, Loveday,” she said, “Primrose won’t hear of it, and being as she is, I can’t contrairy her.”

Loveday felt the futility of argument, and, indeed, in the violent reaction that attacks such ardent natures, she felt too numb to make the attempt even had she wished.  She stood staring at Mrs. Lear with her eyes dark in her pale face and the first presage of defeat in her heart.