Whose gentle pity had brought this pomander to my pillow, to help me from that faintness which had followed my struggle with the Thing? Whose was the exquisite, individual fragrance contained in the ball I held? I had a vision of a figure, surely light and soft of movement, haloed with such matchless hair as the braid I had captured, stealing step by timid step across my room; within my reach while I lay inert. Perhaps her face had bent near mine in her doubt of my life or death; hidden eyes had studied me in the scanty starlight.
Oh, for Ethan Vere's good looks and athlete's grace, to lure my lady from her masquerade!
"Where did you buy it, Cousin Roger? 'Fess up!" Phillida's merry voice coaxed me.
"It was given to me," I slowly answered. "I cannot offer it to you, Phil. But I will buy any other pretty thing you fancy, instead, next time I go to town."
She made a gesture of disclaim.
"I did not mean that! Only, do tell me what the perfume is?"
"I was going to ask if you knew."
"No. Something very expensive and imported, I suppose. Perhaps whoever gave it to you had it made for herself alone, as some wealthy women do. It is the most clinging, yet delicately refreshing scent I ever met."
"Tuberose," suggested Vere.
"Drawls, no. How can you? Like an old-fashioned funeral!" she cried.