"Don't you flatter yourself," retorted Alicia with spirit. Then she laughed and kissed him, and lumbered off to scold Jean up to bed.
Roger sat late, staring into the fire, and reviewing the day's happenings.
There was Alwynne to be considered.... Alwynne in the wood.... Alwynne in the daffodil house.... Alwynne hanging over the bannisters, a candle in her hand.... And Elsbeth.... Elsbeth had become something more than a name.... Elsbeth had known his mother—had been "pals" with his father.... He chuckled at the recollection of Jean's speculations.... Poor old Jean! She hadn't altered much.... He remembered her first horror at Compton and its boys and girls.... But Elsbeth was evidently a good sort ... appreciated Alwynne.... He would like to have a talk with Elsbeth.... He would like to have her version of that disastrous summer; have her views on Alwynne and this school of hers ... and that woman ... what was her name?... Hartill! Clare Hartill! Yes, he must certainly get to know Alwynne's Elsbeth.... In the meantime....
He hesitated, fidgeting at his desk; spoiled a sheet or two; shrugged his shoulders; began again; and finally, with a laugh at his own uncertainty, settled down to the writing of a long letter to his second cousin Elsbeth.
Elsbeth, opening a boot-boxful of daffodils on the following evening, had no leisure for any other letter till Alwynne's was read.
I hope they'll arrive fresh. Roger packed them for me himself. He's frightfully clever with flowers, you know; you should just see his greenhouses! But he goes in chiefly for roses; he's going to teach me pruning and all that, he says, later on. The Dears were out all day, but he looked after me. He's really awfully nice when you get to know him. One of those sensible people. I'm sure you would like him, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Elsbeth smiled over her daffodils. She had to put them in water, and arrange them, and re-arrange them, and admire them for a full half-hour before she had time for the rest of her post, for her two circulars and the letter in the unfamiliar handwriting.
But when, at last, it was opened, she had no more eyes for daffodils; and though she spent her evening letter-writing, Alwynne got no thanks for them next day.
"Not even a note!" declaimed Alwynne indignantly. "She might at least have sent me a note! It isn't as if she had any one else to write to!"
Roger was most sympathetic.