‘You have no flowers,’ says he. ‘I must give you some. These roses will suit you.’
‘They suit Lady Muriel too,’ says Susan, remembering.
‘Yes? Oh yes! I gave them to her this morning. Well, it shan’t be roses, then. These pink begonias?’
‘I should like those better,’ says Susan; she takes them tranquilly. It is, of course, quite right that he should wish to give her flowers different from those he has just given his fiancée. She had reminded him just in time.
Crosby is thankful for her suggestion, but for very different reasons. He had forgotten about Lady Muriel’s roses, and to give her the same—
‘The rain is clearing away,’ says he, looking out of the window. ‘Still’—as if to himself—‘I think we had better take an umbrella.’
‘An umbrella?’
‘On our way home.’
‘Mr. Crosby’—eagerly—‘you need not take me home. You must not. There is really no necessity. Oh!’—anxiously, thinking of Lady Muriel and his desire to be with her—‘I hope you won’t come.’
‘That is not very civil, Susan, is it?’ says he, smiling. He pauses and looks suddenly at her, a new expression growing in his eyes. ‘Of course, if you have arranged to go home with anyone else—’