Bosinney made no reply.  And Soames gave him askance a look of dogged dislike—­for in spite of his fastidious air and that supercilious, dandified taciturnity, Soames, with his set lips and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog....

When, at seven o’clock that evening, June arrived at 62, Montpellier Square, the maid Bilson told her that Mr. Bosinney was in the drawing-room; the mistress—­she said—­was dressing, and would be down in a minute.  She would tell her that Miss June was here.

June stopped her at once.

“All right, Bilson,” she said, “I’ll just go in.  You, needn’t hurry Mrs. Soames.”

She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran downstairs.

June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest—­a slim, imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her crown of twisted red-gold hair.

She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by surprise.  The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering azaleas.

She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney’s voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying.

“Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and now we shan’t have time!”

Irene’s voice answered:  “Why not at dinner?”

“How can one talk....”

June’s first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court.  It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.

Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.

“Come on Sunday by yourself—­We can go over the house together.”

June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms.  It was not the look of a coquette, but—­far worse to the watching girl—­of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much.

“I’ve promised to go for a drive with Uncle....”

“The big one!  Make him bring you; it’s only ten miles—­the very thing for his horses.”

“Poor old Uncle Swithin!”

A wave of the azalea scent drifted into June’s face; she felt sick and dizzy.

“Do! ah! do!”

“But why?”

“I must see you there—­I thought you’d like to help me....”

The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from amongst the blossoms:  “So I do!”

And she stepped into the open space of the window.

“How stuffy it is here!” she said; “I can’t bear this scent!”

Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces.

“Were you talking about the house?  I haven’t seen it yet, you know—­shall we all go on Sunday?"’