“Not very much.  Said she was afraid of something.  I said she wasn’t afraid of anything, and he said she was—­of one thing.  I tried to make him say what it was, because I knew he was all off about that, but he wouldn’t tell.”

“Evidently you and Mr. Kendrick talked a good deal of nonsense,” was Roberta’s comment, on her way from the room.

She found the mass of green and white upon her bed and stood contemplating it for a moment.  The one deep red trillium glowed richly against its snowy brethren, and she picked it out and examined it thoughtfully, as if she expected it to tell her whereof Richard Kendrick thought she was afraid.  But as it vouchsafed no information she gathered up the whole mass and disposed it in a big crystal bowl which she set upon a small table by an open window.

“If I thought that really was the bunch he picked,” said she to herself, “I should consider he had broken his promise and I should feel obliged to throw it away.  Perhaps I’d better do it anyhow.  Yet—­it seems a pity to throw away such a beautiful bowlful of white and green, and—­very likely they were of Ted’s picking after all.  But I don’t like that one red one against all the white.”

She laid fingers upon it to draw it out.  But she did not draw it out.  “I wonder if that represents the one thing I’m afraid of?” she considered whimsically.  “What does his majesty mean—­himself?  Or—­myself?  Or—­of—­of—­Yes, I suppose that’s it!  Am I afraid of it?”

She stood staring down at the one deep red flower, the biggest, finest bloom of them all.  It really did not belong there with the others in their cool, chaste whiteness.  Quite suddenly she drew it out.  She made the motion of throwing it out the window, but it seemed to cling to her fingers.

“Poor little flower,” said she softly, “why should you have to go?  Perhaps you’re sorry because you’re not white like the rest.  But you can’t help it; you were made that way.”

If Richard Kendrick could have seen her standing there, staring down at the flower he had picked, he would have found it harder than ever to go on his appointed course.  For this was what she was thinking: 

“I ought—­I ought—­to like best the white flowers of intellect—­and ability—­and training—­and every sort of fitness.  I try and try to like them best.  But, oh!—­they are so white—­compared with this red, red one.  I like the white ones; they are pure and cool and beautiful.  But—­the red one is warm, warm!  Oh, I don’t know—­I don’t know.  And how am I going to know?  Tell me that, red flower.  Did he pick you?  Shall I keep you—­on the doubt?  Well—­but not where you will show.  Yes, I’ll keep you, but away down in the middle, where no one will see you, and where you won’t distract my attention from the beautiful white flowers that are so different from you.”

She bent over the bowlful of snowy spring blossoms, drew them apart, and sunk the red flower deep among them, drawing them together again so that not a hint of their alien brother should show against their whiteness.