Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Under her rug lay a bunch of primroses. He had brought them wrapped up and hidden in a clean handkerchief. "We have lots of these. I thought you might like a few." He had stood holding them with an air of grave shyness until she had put out a hand and taken them, and thanked him, not looking at his face but at the flowers. She had heard his voice going on. "They came out of Gore Wood. Masses of them there since I had some oaks felled and the underwood cut over. Same with other flowers. Bluebells later, like a bit of blue sky fallen down on the ground. And then--foxgloves. I hope you are better?"

A bunch of primroses, that was Colonel Sykes' imaginary bill, concealed from the conquering eye-glass, lying snugly somewhere near her bosom. She lay and watched the two over yonder, the strong man with the spade, and poor old Hesketh with his egg-shaped head looking too heavy for his thin neck, and his long legs flopping about as though neither quite knew what the other was doing. She heard Furze speaking to her father, and his voice had a gentleness.