She was standing by the vase of roses, scattering petals with ruthless fingers. She crossed over to him and put both her hands in his.
'You're not a failure, John Scidmore,' she said simply.
The rose-petals were dropping in a steady shower on the table. He saw them lying lightly on the white glove. He felt a great relief as he put his clenched hand to his eyes.
V
As John Scidmore rode home he felt desperately tired. He could not remember a day which had seemed longer.
He dragged up the elm-shaded street, down which he had whistled his confident way twelve hours before, a shuffling, ineffectual figure. As he opened the front door his hand shook.
He lingered in the hall, hanging his hat with unnecessary care, twisting his necktie into shape, smoothing the thin wisps of hair about his temples.
He found Kitty in the living-room. A tiny fire crackled in the grate. Standing in the doorway he watched the needle which Kitty deftly plied slipping about its task with fascinating gleams. Her face was happily flushed and she was humming softly to herself. The elegant memory of Julia Norris rose before him. He saw again the golden shower of light from the huge table-lamp, the vase of American Beauty roses, the lace scarf thrown carelessly across a brocade chair. He pressed his lips together and entered the room.
Kitty looked up.
He stopped short. 'Something new?' he ventured.