Her father shot a quick glance at her. "Yes--bought it in Paris. He
came in person to present it, but left when he found that you were
not down--rather pretty." This was an inadequate description of the
beautiful plaque that flashed and glittered from its velvet bed.
"It is lovely," she said, but without warmth. "Ought I accept--it is
a very expensive present!"
"Why not? Steppe is a good friend of ours; besides, he likes you,"
said the doctor, not looking up from his plate. "He would be
terribly hurt if you didn't take it--in fact, you cannot very well
refuse."
She ran through her letters. There was a note from Ronnie, an
invitation to a first night. He said nothing about her birthday.
"Oh, by the way, some flowers came. I told Dean to put them in your
room. I have been puzzling my head to remember when I told him the
date of your birthday. I suppose I must have done so, and, of
course, he has the most colossal memory."
"Who, father?"
"Sault. He must have got up very early and gone to the market to get
them. Very decent of him."
She went out of the room with an excuse and found her maid in the
pantry. She had filled a big bowl with the roses. There were so
many that only room for half of them had been found.
"The others I will put in the doctor's room, Miss," said the maid.
"Put them all in my room, every one of them," demanded Beryl.
She selected three and fastened them in her belt before she went back
to the breakfast room. The doctor laughed.
"I've never seen you wearing flowers before--Sault would be awfully
pleased."
This she knew. That was why she wore them.