lifted on the shoulders of the mass below, and staying himself with one hand against the tree, rapidly stripped away the remnants of the wreath, and flung them into the crowd under him. A single tuft remained; the crowd was melting away under him in a scramble for the fallen flowers; he made a crooked leap, caught the tuft, and tumbled with it headlong.
“Oh!” breathed the ladies on the Benches, with a general suspiration lost in the 'rahs and clappings, as Mavering reappeared with the bunch of flowers in his hand. He looked dizzily about, as if not sure, of his course; then his face, flushed and heated, with the hair pulled over the eyes, brightened with recognition, and he advanced upon Mrs. Saintsbury's party with rapid paces, each of which Mrs. Pasmer commentated with inward conjecture.
“Is he bringing the flowers to Alice? Isn't it altogether too conspicuous? Has he really the right to do it? What will people think? Will he give them to me for her, or will he hand them directly to her? Which should I prefer him to do? I wonder if I know?”
When she looked up with the air of surprise mixed with deprecation and ironical disclaimer which she had prepared while these things were passing through her mind, young Mavering had reached them, and had paused in a moment's hesitation before his father. With a bow of affectionate burlesque, from which he lifted his face to break into laughter at the look in all their eyes, he handed the tattered nosegay to his father.
“Oh, how delightful! how delicate! how perfect!” Mrs. Pasmer confided to herself.
“I think this must be for you, Mrs. Pasmer,” said the elder Mavering, offering her the bouquet, with a grave smile at his son's whim.
“Oh no, indeed!” said Mrs. Pasmer. “For Mrs. Saintsbury, of course.”
She gave it to her, and Mrs. Saintsbury at once transferred it to Miss Pasmer.
“They wished me to pass this to you, Alice;” and at this consummation Dan Mavering broke into another happy laugh.
“Mrs. Saintsbury, you always do the right thing at once,” he cried.
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