A REPRIEVE
Rawson-Clew was reading a letter. It was breakfast time; the letter
had missed the afternoon post yesterday, which was what the writer
would have wished, and so was not delivered at the hotel till the
morning. It was short, from the beginning--"I am so glad you have done
it," to the end of the postscript--"this is to-morrow, so good-bye."
There was not much to read; yet he looked at it for some time. Did
ever man receive such a refusal to an offer of marriage? It was almost
absurd, and perhaps hardly flattering, yet somehow characteristic of
the writer; Rawson-Clew recognised that now, though it had surprised
him none the less. What was to be done next? See the girl, he
supposed, and hear what she proposed to do; she wrote that she had
arranged "capitally," but she did not say what. He was quite certain
she was not going to remain with the Van Heigens; if by some
extraordinary accident she had been able to bring that about, she
would certainly have told him so triumphantly. He could not think of
anything "capital" she could have arranged; he was persuaded, either
that she only said it to reassure him, or else, if she believed it, it
was in her ignorance of the extent of the damage done yesterday. He
must go and see her, hear what she had planned, and what further
trouble she was thinking to get herself into, and prevent it in the
only way possible; and there was only one way, there was absolutely
no other solution of the difficulty; she must marry him, and there was
an end of it. He glanced at her refusal again, and liked it in spite
of its absurdity; after all, perhaps it would have been better if he
had been frank too; one could afford to dispense with the delicate
conventions that he associated with women in dealing with this girl.
He wished he had gone to her and spoken freely, as man to man, saying
plainly that since they had together been indiscreet, they must
together take the consequence, and make the best of it--and really the
best might be very good.
Soon after he had finished breakfast he set out for the Van Heigens'
house. But as yet, though he had some comprehension of Julia, he had
not fully realised the promptness of action which necessity had taught
her. When he reached the Van Heigens' she had been gone some sixteen
hours.
It was Vrouw Van Heigen who told him; she was in the veranda when he
arrived, and so, perforce, saw him and answered his inquiries. It was
evident, at the outset, that neither his appearance nor name conveyed
anything to her; she had not seen him the day of the excursion, and
Denah's description, purposely complicated by a cross description of
Julia's, had conveyed nothing, and his name had never transpired. He
saw he was unknown, and recognised Julia's loyal screening of him, not
with any satisfaction; evidently it was part of her creed to stand
between a man (father or otherwise) and the consequence of his acts.
That was an additional reason for finding her and explaining that he,
unlike Captain Polkington, was not used to anything of the sort.
"She has gone?" he said, in answer to Vrouw Van Heigen's brief
information. The old lady was decidedly nervous of the impressive
Englishman who had come asking after her disgraced companion; she
moved her fat hands uneasily even before he asked, "Where has she
gone? Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me her address?"
"I cannot," she was obliged to say; "I have not it. I do not know
where she is."
Rawson-Clew stared. "But surely," he said, "you are mistaken? She was
here yesterday."
"Yes, yes; I know. But she is not here now; she went last night in
haste. I will tell you about it. You are a friend? Come in."
Without waiting, she led him into the drawing-room, and there left him
in some haste. The room struck him as familiar; he wondered why, until
he remembered that it must have been Julia's description which made
him so well acquainted with it. It was all just as she described; the
thick, dark-coloured carpet, with the little carefully-bound strips of
the same material laid over it to make paths to the piano, the stove,
and other frequented spots. The highly-polished furniture, upholstered
in black and yellow Utrecht velvet, the priceless Chinese porcelain
brought home by old Dutch merchants, and handed down from mother to
daughter for generations; the antimacassars of crochet work, the
snuff-coloured wall-paper, the wonderful painted tiles framed in ebony
that hung upon it. It was all just as she had said; the very light and
smell seemed familiar, she must somehow have given him an idea of them
too.
Just then Vrouw Van Heigen came back, and her husband with her; she
had been to fetch him, not feeling equal to dealing with the visitor
alone. Mijnheer, by her request, had put on his best coat, but he
still had his spectacles pushed upon his forehead, as they always were
when he was disturbed in the office.
There was a formal greeting--one never dispensed with that in Holland,
then Mijnheer said, "You are, I suppose, a friend of Miss Polkington's
father?"
Rawson-Clew, remembering the winter day at Marbridge, answered, "I am
acquainted with him."
Mijnheer nodded. "Yes, yes," he said; then, "it is very sad, and much
to be regretted. I cannot but give to you, and through you to her
father, very bad news of Miss Polkington. She is not what we thought
her; she has disgraced--"
But here Rawson-Clew interrupted, but in the quiet, leisurely way
which was so incomprehensible to the Hollanders. "My dear sir," he
said, "please spare yourself the trouble of these details; I am the
man with whom Miss Polkington had the misfortune to be lost on the
Dunes."
Vrouw Van Heigen gasped; the gentle, drawling voice, the manner, the
whole air of the speaker overwhelmed her, and shattered all her
previous thoughts of the affair. With Mijnheer it was different; right
was right, and wrong wrong to him, no matter who the persons concerned
might be.
"Then, sir," he said, growing somewhat red, "I am glad indeed that I
cannot tell you where she is."
Rawson-Clew looked up with faint admiration, righteous indignation, or
at all events the open expression of it, was a discourtesy practically
extinct with the people among whom he usually lived. He felt respect
for the old bulb grower who would be guilty of it.
"I am sorry you should think so badly of me," he said; "I can only
assure you that it is without reason. You do not believe me? I suppose
it is quite useless for me to say that my sole motive in seeking Miss
Polkington is a desire to prevent her from coming to any harm?"
"She will, I should think, come to less harm without you than with
you," Mijnheer retorted; and Rawson-Clew, seeing as plainly as Julia
had yesterday, the impossibility of making the position clear, did not
attempt it.
"I hope you may be right," he said, "but I am afraid she will be in
difficulties. She had little money, and no friends in Holland, and
was, I have reason to believe, on such terms with her family that it
would not suit her to return to England."
"Ah, but she must have gone to England!" Vrouw Van Heigen cried. "She
went away in a carriage as one does when one goes to the station to
start on a journey."
"She received letters from her family," Mijnheer said sturdily, "not
frequently, but occasionally; there was not, I think, any quarrel or
disagreement. She must certainly have set out to return home last
night. If not, and if she had nowhere to go, why should she leave as
she did yesterday? We did not say 'go!' we were content that she
should remain several days, until her arrangements could be made."
"She might not have cared for that," Rawson-Clew suggested; "if you
insinuated to her the sort of things you did to me; women do not like
that, as a rule, you know."
All the same, as he said this, he could not help thinking Mijnheer
right; Julia must have had somewhere to go. Her dignity and feelings
were not of the order to lose sight of essentials in details, or to
demand unreasonable sacrifice of common sense. She must have had some
destination in view when she left the Van Heigens yesterday, and, as
far as he could see, there was no destination open to her but home.
Mijnheer was firmly of this opinion, although, now that a question
about it had been suggested to him, he wished he had made sure before
the girl left. Of course, her plans and destination were no business
of his--she might even have refused to give information about them on
that account; he had dismissed her in disgrace, what she did next was
not his concern. But in spite of her bad behaviour he had liked her;
and though his notions of propriety, and consequent condemnation of
her, had undergone no change, he was kind-heartedly anxious she should
come to no harm. Her words about some good people making the merely
indiscreet into sinners came back to him, but he would not apply them;
Julia had gone home, he was sure of it, and a good thing too; the
Englishman with the quiet voice and the grand manner could not follow
her there to her detriment. Though, to be sure, it was strange that
such a man as he should want to; he was not the kind of person
Mijnheer had expected the partner in the escapade to be; truly the
English were a strange people, very strange. His wife agreed with him
on that point; they often said so afterwards--in fact, whenever they
thought of the disgraced companion, who was such an excellent cook.
As for Rawson-Clew, he returned to England; there was nothing to keep
him longer in Holland. But as he was still not sure how Julia's
"capital arrangement" was going to be worked out, and was determined
to bear his share of the burden, he decided to go to Marbridge on an
early opportunity.
The opportunity did not occur quite so soon as he expected; several
things intervened, so that he had been home more than a week before he
was able to fulfil his intention. Marbridge lies in the west country,
some considerable distance from London; Rawson-Clew did not reach it
till the afternoon, at an hour devoted by the Polkingtons most
exclusively to things social. It is to be feared, however, that he did
not consider the Polkingtons collectively at all; it was Julia, and
Julia alone, of whom he was thinking when he knocked at the door of
No. 27 East Street.
The door was opened by a different sort of servant from the one who
had opened it to him the last time he came; rather a smart-looking
girl she was, with her answers quite ready.
"Miss Julia Polkington was not at home," she said, and, in answer to
his inquiry when she was expected, informed him that she did not know.
"There is no talk of her coming home, sir," she said; "she is abroad,
I think; she has been gone some time."
"Since when?"
The girl did not know. "In the spring, I think, sir," she said; "she
has not been here all the summer."
Then, it seemed, his first suspicion was correct; Julia had not gone
home; for some reason or another she was not able to return.
"Is Captain Polkington in?" he asked.
He was not; there was no one at home now; but Mrs. Polkington would be
in in about an hour. The maid added the last, feeling sure her
mistress would be sorry to let such a visitor slip.
But Rawson-Clew did not want to see Mrs. Polkington; she, he was
nearly sure, represented the aspiring side of the family, not the one
to whom Julia would turn in straits. The improved look of the house
and the servant suggested that the family was hard at work aspiring
just now, and so less likely than ever to be ready to welcome the
girl, or anxious to give true news of her if they had any to give.
Captain Polkington, who no one could connect with the ascent of the
social ladder, might possibly know something; at all events, there
was a better chance of it, and he certainly could very easily be made
to tell anything he did know.
"When do you expect Captain Polkington home?" he asked.
"Not for a month or more, I believe, sir," was the answer; "he is in
London just now."
Rawson-Clew asked for his address; it occurred to him that Julia might
have gone to her father; it really seemed very probable. He got the
address in full, and went away, but without leaving any name to puzzle
and tantalise Mrs. Polkington. Of course she was puzzled and
tantalised when the maid told her of the visitor. From past
experience, she expected something unpleasant of his coming, even
though the description sounded favourable; but, as she heard no more
of it, she forgot all about him in the course of time.
It was on the next afternoon that Rawson-Clew drove to 31 Berwick
Street. There are several Berwick Streets in London, and, though the
address given was full enough for the postal authorities, the cabman
had some difficulty in finding it, and went wrong before he went
right. It was a dingy street, and not very long; it had an
unimportant, apologetic sort of air, as if it were quite used to being
overlooked. The houses were oldish, and very narrow, so that a good
many were packed into the short length; the pavement was narrow, too,
and so were the windows; they, for the most part, were carefully
draped with curtains of doubtful hue. Some were further guarded from
prying eyes by sort of gridirons, politely called balconies, though,
since the platform had been forgotten, and only the protecting
railings were there hard up against the glass, the name was deceptive.
The hansom came slowly down the street, the driver scanning the
frequent doors for 31. He overlooked it by reason of the fact that the
number had been rubbed off, but finally located it by discovering most
of the numbers above and below. Rawson-Clew got out and rang. In
course of time--rather a long time--the door was opened to him by the
landlady--that same landlady who had confided to Mr. Gillat the
desirability of having a good standing with the butcher.
"Cap'ain Polkington?" she said, in answer to Rawson-Clew's inquiry. "I
don't know whether he's in or not; you'd better go up and see; one of
'em's there, anyhow."
She stood back against the wall, and Rawson-Clew came in.
"Up-stairs," she said; "second door you come to."
With that she went down to the kitchen regions; she was no respecter
of persons, and she thanked God she had plenty of her own business to
mind, and never troubled herself poking into other people's.
Consequently, though she might wonder what a man of Rawson-Clew's
appearance should want with her lodgers, she did not let it interfere
with her work, or take the edge off her tongue in the heated argument
she held with the milkman, who came directly after.
Rawson-Clew found his way up the stairs; they were steep, and had
rather the appearance of having been omitted in the original plan of
the house, and squeezed in as an afterthought, when it was found
really impossible to do without. There was no window to give light to
them, or air either; hence, no doubt, the antiquity of the flavour of
cabbage and fried bacon with hung about them. But Rawson-Clew, when he
ascended, found the second door without trouble; there was not room to
get lost. He knocked; he half expected to hear Julia's voice; it
seemed to him probable that she was the person referred to as "one of
them." But it was a man who bade him enter, and, unless his memory
played him false, not Captain Polkington.
It was not the Captain, it was Johnny Gillat. He was reading the
newspaper--Captain Polkington had it in the morning, he in the
afternoon; he wore, or attempted to (they fell off rather often), very
old slippers indeed, and a coat of surprising shabbiness which he
reserved for home use. For a moment he stared at his visitor in
astonishment, and Rawson-Clew apologised for his intrusion. "I was
looking for Captain Polkington," he said. "I was told he was probably
here."
"Ah!" Mr. Gillat exclaimed, his face lighting into a smile. "Of
course, of course! Captain Polkington's out just now, but he'll be in
soon. Come in, won't you; come in and wait for him."
He hospitably dragged forward the shabby easy-chair. "Try that, won't
you?" he said. "It's really comfortable--not that one, that's a little
weak in the legs; it ought to be put away; it's deceptive to people
who don't know it."
He pushed the offending chair against the wall, his slippers flapping
on his feet, so that he thought it less noticeable to surreptitiously
kick them off. "My name's Gillat," he went on. "Captain Polkington is
an old friend of mine."
"Mr. Gillat?" Rawson-Clew said. He remembered the name, and something
Julia had said about the bearer of it. It was he who had given her the
big gold watch she wore, and he of whom she had seemed fond, in a
half-protecting, half-patient way, that was rather inexplicable--at
least it was till he saw Mr. Gillat.
"Perhaps," Rawson-Clew said, "you can tell me what I want to know--it
is about Miss Julia Polkington. I met her in Holland during the
summer."
He may have thought of giving some idea of intimacy, or of explaining
his interest; but, if so, he changed his mind; anything of the kind
was perfectly unnecessary to Mr. Gillat, who did not dream of
questioning his reason.
"Ah, yes," he said; "Julia is in Holland; she has been there a long
time."
"Is she there still?" Rawson-Clew asked. "Can you give me her
address?"
"Well," Johnny said regretfully, "not exactly. But she is abroad
somewhere," the last with an increase of cheerfulness, as if to
indicate that this was something, at all events.
"You don't know where she is?" Rawson-Clew inquired. "Does her father?
I suppose he does--some one must."
"No," Johnny said. "No; I'm afraid not. Certainly her father does not,
nor her mother--none of us know; but, as you say, somebody must
know--the people she is with, for instance."
Rawson-Clew grew a little impatient. "Do you mean," he said, "that her
family are content to know nothing of her whereabouts? Have they taken
no steps to find her?"
"Well, you see," Johnny answered slowly, "there aren't any steps to
take. They don't want to find her; she is quite well and happy, no
doubt, and she will come back when she is ready. Mrs. Polkington--do
you know Mrs. Polkington? A wonderful woman! She is very busy just
now, she is shining. Miss Chèrie is quite a belle. They really have
not--have not accommodation for Julia; it is not, of course, that they
don't want her--they have not exactly room for her."
"But surely they want to know where she is?" Rawson-Clew persisted.
"No, they don't," Johnny told him. "They know she is all right; she
told them so, and told them she did not want to be found. They are
satisfied--" He broke off, feeling that the visitor was more
astonished than admiring of such a state of affairs. "Family emotions
and sentiments, you know," he explained in defence of this family,
"are not every one's strong point; the social, or the religious, or--"
(he waved his hand comprehendingly) "or the national may stand first,
and why not?"
"Are you satisfied?" Rawson-Clew asked briefly.
"I'd sooner be able to see her," Johnny admitted. "I'm fond of her;
yes, she's been very kind and good; I miss seeing her. But, of course,
she has her way to make in the world."
"But are you satisfied that she should make it thus? That she should
leave the Dutch family she was with and disappear, leaving no
address?"
"Sir," Johnny said with dignity, "I am quite satisfied, and if any one
says that he is not, I would be pleased to talk to him."
But the dignity left Mr. Gillat's manner as quickly as it came; before
Rawson-Clew could say anything, he was apologising. "You must forgive
me," he said; "I am very fond of that little girl; and I thought--but
I had no business to think; I'm an old fool, to think you meant--"
"I only meant," Rawson-Clew said, speaking with unconscious
gentleness, "that I was afraid she might be in difficulties. She may
be in trouble about money, or something."
"Oh, no," Johnny said cheerfully; "she has a fine head for money
matters. I have sometimes thought, since she has been gone, that she
has the best head in the family! She's all right--quite right; there's
no need to be uneasy about her. I'll show you the letter she wrote
me."
He opened a shabby pocket-book, and took out a letter. "There, you
read that," he said.
Rawson-Clew read, and at the end was little wiser. Julia said she had
left one situation (reason not even suggested), and had got another.
That she did not wish to give her new address, or to hear from Mr.
Gillat, or her family, at this new place, as it might spoil her
arrangements. Rawson-Clew recognised the last word as a favourite of
Julia's; with her it was elastic, and could mean anything, from a
piece of lace arranged to fill up the neck of a dress, to a complex
and far-reaching scheme arranged to bring about some desired end. What
it meant in the present instance was not indicated, but clearly she
did not wish for interference, and, with some wisdom, took the surest
way to prevent it by making it well-nigh impossible. She had left one
means of communication, however, though apparently that was for Johnny
only. "If you and father get into any very great muddle," she wrote,
"you must let me know. Put an advertisement--one word, 'Johnny,' will
do--in a paper; I shall understand, and, if I can, I will try to do
something." A paper was suggested; it was a cheap weekly. Rawson-Clew
remembered to have seen it once in the small Dutch town that summer,
so it was to be got there. Unfortunately, as he also remembered, it
was to be got in Amsterdam and Rotterdam, and Paris and Berlin too.
He folded the letter, and returned it to Mr. Gillat. "Thank you," he
said; "evidently, as you say, she does not wish to be found, and it
would seem she has got some sort of employment, although I am afraid
it cannot be of an easy or pleasant sort."
He did not explain the reason he had for thinking so, and Mr. Gillat
never thought of asking. Soon after he went away.
Clearly there was nothing to be done. Julia did not mean to have his
help and protection; and, with a decision and completeness which, now
he came to think of it, did not altogether surprise him, she has taken
care to avoid them. That absurd refusal of hers was, after all, a
reprieve, although until now he had not looked upon it in that light.
No doubt it was a good thing affairs had turned out as they had; the
marriage would have been in many ways disadvantageous. Yet he
certainly would have insisted on it, and taken trouble to do so, if
she had not put it altogether out of his power. All the same, he did
not feel as gratified as he ought, perhaps because the arrogance of
man is not pleased to have woman arbitrator of his fate, and the
instinct of gentleman is not satisfied to have her bear his burden,
perhaps for some other less clear reason. He really did not know
himself, and did not try to think; there seemed little object in doing
so, seeing that incident was closed.
The next day he went north, and by accident travelled part of the way
with a lady of his acquaintance. She was young, not more than five or
six and twenty, nice looking too, and very well dressed. She had a lot
of small impediments with her--a cloak, a dressing-bag, sunshade,
umbrella, golf clubs--some one, no doubt, would come and clear her
when the destination was reached; in the mean time, she and her
belongings were an eminently feminine presence. She talked pleasantly
of what had happened since they last met; she had been to Baireuth
that summer, she told him, and spoke intelligently of the music, the
technique and the beauty of it, and what it stood for. She was
surprised to hear he had got no further than Holland, and more
surprised still that he had not even seen Rembrandt's masterpiece
while he was there. Her voice was smooth and even, a little loud,
perhaps, from her spending much time out of doors, not in the least
given to those subtle changes of tone which express what is not said;
but as she never wanted to express any such things, that did not
matter.
She did not bore him with too much conversation; she had papers with
her--some three or four, and she glanced at them between whiles.
Afterwards she commented on their contents--the political situation,
the war (there is always a war somewhere), the cricket news, the new
books; touching lightly, but intelligently, on each topic in turn.
Rawson-Clew listened and answered, polite and mildly interested. It
was some time since he had heard this agreeable kind of conversation,
and since he had come in contact with this agreeable kind of person.
He ought to have appreciated it more, as men appreciate the charm of
drawing-rooms who have long been banished from them. He came to the
conclusion that he must be growing old, not to prefer the society of a
pretty, agreeable and well-dressed woman to an empty railway carriage.
The girl had two fine carnations in her coat; the stalks were rather
long, and so had got bruised. She regretted this, and Rawson-Clew
offered to cut them for her. He began to feel for a knife in likely
and unlikely pockets, and it was then that he first noticed a faint,
sweet smell; dry, not strong at all, more a memory than a scent. He
did not recognise what it was, nor from where it came, but it reminded
him of something, he could not think what.
He puzzled over it as he cut the flower stalks, then all at once he
laid hold on the edge of a recollection--a pair of dark eyes, in which
mirthful, mocking lights flickered, as the sun splashes flicker on the
ground under trees--a voice, many-noted as a violin, that grew softest
when it was going to strike hardest, that expressed a hundred things
unsaid.
He looked across at the owner of the carnations, and wondered by what
perversity of fate it was decreed that any one who could buy such good
boots, should have such ill-shaped feet to put into them; and why, if
fate so handicapped her, why she should exhibit them by crossing her
knees. He also wondered what possessed her to wear that hat; every
other well-dressed girl had a variation of the style that year, it was
the correctest of the correct for fashion, but he did not take note of
that. Men are rather blockheaded on the subject of fashion, and seldom
see the charm in the innately unbecoming and unsuitable, no matter
what decrees it.
He looked back to the empty opposite corner, and, though until that
moment he had not really thought of Julia since he left Mr. Gillat
yesterday, he put her there in imagination now. He did not want her
there, he did not want her anywhere (there are some wines which a man
does not want, that still rather spoil his taste for others). She
would not have made the mistake of wearing such a hat; her clothes
were not new, they were distinctly shabby sometimes, but they were
well assorted. As to the boots--he remembered the day he tied her
shoe--he could imagine the man she married, if he were very young and
very foolish, of course, finding a certain pleasure in taking her
arched foot, when it was pink and bare, in the hollow of his hand. If
she were in that corner now, the quiet, twinkling smile would
certainly be on her face as she listened to the talk of books, and
men, and places, and things. He did not picture her joining even when
they spoke of things she knew, and places she had been to--he
remembered he had once heard her speak of a town which had been
spoken of this afternoon. She had somehow grasped the whole life of
the place, and laid it bare to him in a few words--the light-hearted
gaiety and the sordid misery, the black superstition and the towering
history which overhung it, and the cheerful commonplace which, like
the street cries and the gutter streams, ran through it all--the whole
flavour of the thing. The girl opposite had been to the place too; she
told him of the historic spots she had visited; she knew a deal more
about them than Julia did. She spoke of the quaint pottery to be
bought there--it had not struck Julia as quaint, any more than it did
its buyers and sellers. And she referred to the sayings and opinions
of a great pose writer, who had expressed all he knew and felt and
thought about it, and more besides. Julia, apparently, had not read
him--what reading she had done seemed to be more in the direction of
_Gil Blas_, and Dean Swift, and other kindred things in different
languages.
The owner of the carnations glanced out of window, and commented on
the scenery, which was here rather fine--Julia would not have done
that; all the same, she would have known just what sort of country
they had passed through all the way, not only when it was fine; she
would have noticed the lie of the land, the style of work done there,
the kind of lives lived there, even, possibly, the likely difficulties
in the way of railway-making and bridge building. She would certainly
have taken account of the faces on the platforms at which they drew
up, so that without effort she could have picked out the porter who
would give the best service; the stranger in need of help, and he who
would offer it; and the guard most likely to be useful if it were
necessary to cheat the company--it was conceivable that cheating
companies might sometimes be necessary in her scheme of things.
[Illustration: "Julia"]
He cut another piece off the carnation stalks, they were still too
long. He did not wish Julia there; he fancied that it was likely she
would not easily find her place among the people he would meet at his
journey's end. But if there were no end--if he were going somewhere
else, east or west, north or south--say a certain old oriental town,
old and wicked as time itself, and full of the mystery and indefinable
charm of age, and iniquity, and transcendent beauty--she would like
that; she would grasp the whole, without attempting to express or
judge it. Or a little far-off Tyrolean village, remote as the
mountains from the life of the world--she would like that; the
discomfort would be nothing to her, the primitiveness, the simplicity,
everything. If he were going to some such place--why, then, there were
worse things than having to take the companion of the holiday too.
He handed back the carnations, and then unthinkingly put his hand into
his coat-pocket. His fingers came in contact with some dry rubbish,
little more than stalks and dust, but still exhaling something of the
fragrance which had been sun distilled on the Dunes. He recognised it
now--Julia's flowers, put there in the wood, and forgotten until now.
"Thanks so much for cutting them," said the girl with the carnations,
smelling them before she fastened them on again. "I really think they
are my favourite flower; the scent is so delicious--quite the nicest
flower of all, don't you think so?"
"I'm not sure," Rawson-Clew said thoughtfully, and when he spoke
thoughtfully he drawled very much, "I'm not sure I don't sometimes
prefer wild thyme."