WHITEWASH
penknife. He drew back slowly, as if her nearness held him like a magnet.
With a pretty gesture of admiration she drew from their wrappings a heavy bunch of Russian violets that instantly shed the perfume of their blossoms through the room.
"And now it grows and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee," he quoted, smiling directly at her.
"That was when she sent the wreath back," Philippa laughed. "Shall I?"
"Do you want to break my heart?" he inquired, seriously.
She sniffed the bouquet, looking over the flowers with eyes now grown as violet as the blossoms. "I don't know. I think I might—"
"You ought to say, 'I know I have.'"
She shook her head. "No, not yet."
"You never believe," he sighed.
"No."
"Shall I never get my passport to your heart?"
She temporized. "Let me see, how should I make it out: 'Permit to travel in the heart of Philippa Ford, one Lucius Valdeck, native of Po-
