‘Are they not lovely? I like them better than any other flower—in fact, I love them. Almost the first thing that I can remember is holding on to my mother’s finger while she took me up to a bank of primroses; afterwards, when I grew old enough to pick them for myself, oh, the delight, each spring, of finding the first primrose!’ Now, curiously enough, the gay tone and easy manner had the effect of filling Richard with wrath; the very grace of her attitude, the child-like candour of her eyes were to him obnoxious, the more so because he could not repress a momentary thrill of admiration. He knew how much they were worth; he knew the sordid nature beneath this attractive disguise. ‘Primroses are fine things,’ he said, with assumed carelessness. ‘You should have picked some before the nineteenth; then you would have had a good sale for them.’ ‘But I don’t want to sell them,’ cried she, her white teeth flashing out as she laughed, and the dimples coming and going. ‘I picked them for myself—I shall fill every vase in the house. Primroses should never be sold; those you see in the streets look so miserable, all huddled together with their dear little faces crushed and faded, and even their scent gone! It seems a sin to sell primroses.’ ‘Yes, particularly as I don’t suppose they fetch a big price in the market.’ She had gathered up a bunch in one hand, and now raised it to her soft cheek. ‘They are like satin,’ she said. Somehow the gesture and the smile which accompanied it provoked Richard beyond endurance. ‘They are pretty little yellow things,’ he said, ‘but not worth the attention of practical people. There are other yellow things more deserving of admiration—rolls of beautiful fresh butter, for instance; fine round cheeses!—The beauty of these is that they can be exchanged for still finer yellow things—golden coin, Mrs. Fiander, that is the only yellow thing really worth thinking about.’ ‘Are you so fond of money?’ she asked innocently; and once more she laid the dew-drenched flowers caressingly against her cheek. How could she look so guileless; how had she the face to turn the tables on him thus; above all, how dared she be so beautiful! He had almost succeeded in forgetting his transitory hallucination; he wanted to ignore her charm—and here she was tantalising him afresh. ‘Are we not all fond of money?’ he said, with a forced laugh. ‘Are not you fond of money?’ ‘Am I?’ queried she; and the blue eyes glanced up with genuine astonishment. ‘Why, of course you are! We’re all fond of it, I say. We men toil for it: we sell our brains for it—we sell our strength and power, and the best years of our lives for it. And you women—’ He paused. Rosalie, surprised at his vehemence, but still half amused, inquired lightly: ‘Well, what do we do? Take care of it when we’ve got it, and do without it when we have n’t?’