Bressant came up and stood beside her.
It was just dark enough to make the difference between a perfect and an imperfect bud a matter of some doubt.

Cornelia peeped cautiously about, putting aside the wet twigs gingerly, and lifting up one flower after another; desisting every once in a while to slap at the fine sting of a mosquito on her arms or neck.
"Oh! there's one that looks nice!" exclaimed she, disposing her drapery to reach across the bush for a distant bud which looked in every respect satisfactory.

But Bressant saw it, and plucked it without effort, drawing blood from his finger as he did so, however.

He smelt it, and looked from it to Cornelia, apparently trying to identify an idea.
"Aren't you going to give me my bud ?" demanded Miss Valeyon.

"What's the matter, sir ?" "In some way it reminds me of you," replied he, giving it to her with a shake of the head.