TRAMPLED ROSES
I
As Tabs emerged from his interview with Sir Tobias, he found Terry standing in the hall, doing up the last button of her gloves. James, of the velvet-plush manners, lost no time in proffering him his hat and cane, and in flinging the front-door wide. He did it with the air of a sentimentalist who was aiding and abetting an elopement. Tabs had the feeling as he limped along the pavement with Terry tripping at his side, that the eyes of the house which they had left followed them—followed them jealously, romantically, expectantly. There was only one way in which they could give satisfaction and that was by returning to it engaged.
"He lacks ardor. Perhaps, after all, he's too old!" Lady Beddow's criticism drummed in his mind. Not very pleasant hearing!
Silence was maintained till they had rounded a corner and the tall buff house was left behind. Then Terry raised a shy, laughing face. "Downcast, Tabs? You look as though you were bearing the sins of all the world."
"Not of all the world!" he corrected gravely. "Only of three people."
"Then I'm one of them. Who are the other two?"
"You know already—Mrs. Lockwood and Braithwaite. I saved all your necks, but I broke my own."
She brushed against him affectionately. "Tabs, you're a trump."