Through the open window the sunny air floated, drenched with perfume.

Anita was laughing at something the Sergeant said;--they had usually been serious enough while working together in the garden.
Presently Anita came into the drawing-room, carrying in her thin, white skirt, as if it were an apron, a great mass of blossoms.

Colonel Fortescue held out a letter to her.
"This was enclosed in a letter to me from Mr.Broussard," said the Colonel.
[Illustration: "This was enclosed in a letter to me from Mr.Broussard," said the Colonel.] Anita, although eighteen years old that day, acted like a child.

She dropped the corners of her skirt and the flowers fell to the floor.

One moment she stood like a bird poised for flight, and then taking the letter, tripped out of the room and up the stairs.
Both Colonel and Mrs.Fortescue in the still May afternoon heard her turn the key in the lock of her little rose-colored room.
Mrs.Fortescue gathered up the blossoms, the Colonel with moody eyes looking down.
"Oh, the jealousy of fathers," said Mrs.Fortescue, after a minute.