"
"A smell of earth fresh from 'wholesome drench of April rains,'" said
Mr. Raleigh, taking the dish of white porcelain between his brown,
slender hands. "An immature scent, just such an innocent breath as
should precede the epigea, that spicy, exhaustive wealth of savor, that
complete maturity of odor, marriage of daphne and linnaea. The charm of
these first bidders for the year's favor is neither in the ethereal
texture, the depth or delicacy of tint, nor the large-lobed,
blood-stained, ancient leaves. This imponderable soul gives them such a
helpless air of babyhood."
"Is fragrance the flower's soul?" asked Marguerite. "Then anemones are
not divinely gifted. And yet you said, the other day, that to paint my
portrait would be to paint an anemone."
"A satisfactory specimen in the family-gallery," said Mrs. Purcell.
"A flaw in the indictment!" replied Mr. Raleigh. "I am not one of those
who paint the lily."
"Though you've certainly added a perfume to the violet," remarked Mr.
Frederic Heath, with that sweetly lingering accent familiarly called the
drawl, as he looked at the hepaticas.
"I don't think it very complimentary, at any rate," continued
Marguerite.
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