"We were only laughing," Cleo said. The fragrance of flowers anointed her. Rain it seemed had darkened her hair but in fairness tightened her curls.
        "We?" Esme(e) searched.
        "Yes!" Cleo was merry. She held the brightness.
        Elaine was critical; she was tasked to break free of irritation. Besides, she rather liked the effect and the inner residue not yet a glow but stimulating.
        The fragrance of flowers was all they could breathe.

Rose snapped her handkerchief enviable with Belgian lace, "Better by far than sulphur at the plays or the juice of chemical flasks."
"Or the back end of a cow," Elaine was helpful, Elaine was crisp.
Carrie blushed.
Violet laughed.
And Esme(e)?

        Reluctantly Esme(e) withdrew her eyes from where they ranged among the trees, to the distance.
        Beat beat beat went hearts while Esme(e) focused those rich shadowed eyes like loaded oils to lay the depths of ponds and secret folds of anciently wooded clefts those piercing relentless eyes loving too much hatchling life excruciating how all life is hatchling.
Far away in the message of  wet green the black bull lifted his nose, turned his liquid eye.
The women seemed not to care.
        Esme(e)'s vest was lavished with brocade, evenly marked by ebony buttons and its pocket held the ticking timepiece inscribed by the grateful doctors of the university.  Esme(e)'s eyes took Cleo their blade fierce, tender, perceptive, stripping.
        Cleo continued to smile clasping her hands before her she stilled meeting Esme(e)'s eyes; laughter remained in hers and feeling vastly beyond laughter as her wet bodice was beyond elevating such sculpted breasts.

        Esme(e) went to Cleo quick as a cat, quiet, and raised a hand and held off all distraction and surely kissed Cleo on the lips. Liquidly lowering arm and hand, fluidly continuing on the curve vectoring Esme(e) faced them on the platform once again and proclaimed:
        "Honey of roses."