Her hand went to the violets at her breast, and as my eyes followed it, a sudden intuitive dread entered my mind like an impulse of rage.
"I intended to send you flowers, Sally, but in the rush, I forgot. Whose are those you are wearing?"
She moved slightly, and the perfume of the violets floated from the cloud of lace on her bosom.
"George sent them," she answered quietly.
Before she spoke I had known it—the curse of my life was to be that George would always remember—and the intuitive dread I had felt changed, while I stood there, to the dull ache of remorse.
"Take them off, and I'll get you others if there's a shop open in the city," I said. Then, as she hesitated, wavering between doubt and surprise, I left the room, descended the steps with a rush, and picking up my hat, hurried in search of a belated florist who had not closed. At the corner a man, going out to dine, paused to fasten his overcoat under the electric light, which blazed fitfully in the wind; and as I approached and he looked up, I saw that it was George Bolingbroke.
"It's time all sober married men were at home dressing for dinner," he observed in a whimsical tone.
The wind had brought a glow of colour into his face, and he looked very handsome as he stood there, in his fur-lined coat, under the blaze of light.
"I was kept late down town," I replied. "The General and I get all the hard knocks while you take it easy."
"Well, I like an easy world, and I believe your world is pretty much about what you make it. Where are you rushing? Do you go my way?"