'They tell me that you are something of a poet, officer,' said Mr. Reeder.
Burnett blushed.
'Why, yes, sir. I write a bit,' he confessed.
'Love poems, yes?' asked the other gently. 'One finds time in the night—er—for such fancies. And there is no inspiration like—er—love, officer.'
Burnett's face was crimson.
'I've done a bit of writing in the night, sir,' he said, 'though I've never neglected my duty.'
'Naturally,' murmured Mr. Reeder. 'You have a poetical mind. It was a poetical thought to pluck flowers in the middle of the night—'
'The nurseryman told me I could take any flowers I wanted,' Burnett interrupted hastily. 'I did nothing wrong.'
Reeder inclined his head in agreement.
'That I know. You picked the flowers in the dark—by the way, you inadvertently included a Michaelmas
