He nodded whimsically.
"Very well. To-morrow, at four precisely, there will be a row royal. To-morrow I am calling on Miss Hartill to fetch Alwynne home. Good-bye, Cousin Elsbeth."
He turned again in the doorway.
"Elsbeth, there's a house at Dene I've got my eye on. There's a turret room. My best roses will clamber right into it. That's to be yours. And Elsbeth! Nobody but you shall run the nursery."
He had shut the door before she could answer, and she heard him laugh as he ran, two at a time, down the shallow steps.
She went to the window and watched till his strong figure had disappeared in the dusk.
"He is very like his father," said Elsbeth wistfully, glancing across at the faded likeness.
The dusk deepened and the stars began to twinkle.
"He will never be the man his father was," cried Elsbeth, suddenly and defiantly.
Her hands shook as she cleared away the remnants of the meal. She swept up the hearth, picked the coals carefully apart, and tidied the tidy room. Roger's roses still lay in a heap in the basket chair. She gathered them up and carried them into the tiny bathroom, that they might drink their fill all night. Their scent was strong and sweet. Then she lit her candle and prepared for bed.