Quex.
There were flowers.
Frayne.
I know—I know! Nearly twenty years ago, and the faint scent of the Gardenia Florida remains in my nostrils!
Quite so. Would you like to—?
Frayne.
[Sitting.] No, no—you. Excuse me. You go on.
Quex.
[Sitting on the edge of the table, looking down upon Frayne.] When I proposed to Miss Eden I was certain—even while I was stammering it out—I was certain that my infernal evil character—