Shall we go back?"

She could not fail to notice the trace of bitterness, and subsequent
coldness, with which he spoke. She knew that he must have been thinking
deeply over this matter, and that it was no ordinary thing that caused
him to speak with so much feeling. But, of course, when he proposed that
they should return to the marquee, she consented. He could not expect
her to stand there and defend her whole manner of life. Much less could
he expect her to give up her profession merely because he had exercised
his wits in getting up some fantastic theory about it. And she began to
think that he had no right to talk to her in this bitter fashion.

When they had got half way back to the tent, he paused for a moment.

"I am going to ask a favor of you," he said, in a low voice. "I have
spent a pleasant time in England, and I cannot tell you how grateful I
am to you for letting me become one of your friends. To-morrow morning I
am going back home. I should like you to give me that flower--as some
little token of remembrance."

The small fingers did not tremble at all as she took the flower from her
dress. She presented it to him with a charming smile and without a word.
What was the giving of a flower? There was a cart-load of roses in the
tent.

But this flower she had worn next her heart.