One might almost fancy he was offended at something.

At any other time Lewisham might have been propitiatory, but now he offered no apology.  Chaffery turned to Ethel and looked at her curiously for a moment.  “Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

On the doorstep Chaffery regarded Lewisham with the same curious look, and seemed to weigh some remark.  “Good-bye,” he said at last with something in his manner that kept Lewisham at the door for a moment looking after his stepfather’s receding figure.  But immediately the roses were uppermost again.

When he re-entered the living room he found Ethel sitting idly at her typewriter, playing with the keys.  She got up at his return and sat down in the armchair with a novelette that hid her face.  He stared at her, full of questions.  After all, then, they had not come.  He was intensely disappointed now, he was intensely angry with the ineffable young shop-woman in black.  He looked at his watch and then again, he took a book and pretended to read and found himself composing a scathing speech of remonstrance to be delivered on the morrow at the flower-shop.  He put his book down, went to his black bag, opened and closed it aimlessly.  He glanced covertly at Ethel, and found her looking covertly at him.  He could not quite understand her expression.

He fidgeted into the bedroom and stopped as dead as a pointer.

He felt an extraordinary persuasion of the scent of roses.  So strong did it seem that he glanced outside the room door, expecting to find a box there, mysteriously arrived.  But there was no scent of roses in the passage.

Then he saw close by his foot an enigmatical pale object, and stooping, picked up the creamy petal of a rose.  He stood with it in his hand, perplexed beyond measure.  He perceived a slight disorder of the valence of the dressing-table and linked it with this petal by a swift intuition.

He made two steps, lifted the valence, and behold! there lay his roses crushed together!

He gasped like a man who plunges suddenly into cold water.  He remained stooping with the valence raised.

Ethel appeared in the half doorway and her, expression was unfamiliar.  He stared at her white face.

“Why on earth did you put my roses here?” he asked.

She stared back at him.  Her face reflected his astonishment.

“Why did you put my roses here?” he asked again.

“Your roses!” she cried, “What!  Did you send those roses?”

CHAPTER XXIX.

THORNS AND ROSE PETALS.

He remained stooping and staring up at her, realising the implication of her words only very slowly.

Then it grew clear to him.

As she saw understanding dawning in his face, she uttered a cry of consternation.  She came forward and sat down upon the little bedroom chair.  She turned to him and began a sentence.  “I,” she said, and stopped, with an impatient gesture of her hands. “Oh!”