“From the garden—under the windows,” said Isabel.
“So late in the year—and so fragrant! Do you remember the violets under Aunt Bell’s south wall?”
The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel’s eyes lighting up.
“Don’t I?” she replied. “Wasn’t she queer!”
“A curious old girl,” laughed Bertie. “There’s a streak of freakishness in the family, Isabel.”
“Ah—but not in you and me, Bertie,” said Isabel. “Give them to Maurice, will you?” she added, as Bertie was putting down the flowers. “Have you smelled the violets, dear? Do!—they are so scented.”
Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against his large, warm-looking fingers. Maurice’s hand closed over the thin white fingers of the barrister. Bertie carefully extricated himself. Then the two watched the blind man smelling the violets. He bent his head and seemed to be thinking. Isabel waited.
“Aren’t they sweet, Maurice?” she said at last, anxiously.
“Very,” he said. And he held out the bowl. Bertie took it. Both he and Isabel were a little afraid, and deeply disturbed.
The meal continued. Isabel and Bertie chatted spasmodically. The blind man was silent. He touched his food repeatedly, with quick, delicate touches of his knife-point, then cut irregular bits. He could not bear to be helped. Both Isabel and Bertie suffered: Isabel wondered why. She did not suffer when she was alone with Maurice. Bertie made her conscious of a strangeness.