"There hasn't been a great deal of news," I said.
She dropped a long-stemmed rose and waited for me to pick it up.
"Thank you," she said. "Oh, did it prick you?"
"Yes," said I flatly. Then we both gave the closest attention to the end of my thumb while I triumphantly squeezed a tiny drop of blood out of it. I sucked it. The incident was closed. She was no longer interested in the laceration.
"Mr. Poopendyke knew how lonely I would be. He telephoned twice a day."
I thought I detected a slight note of pique in her voice. But it was so slight that it was hardly worth while to exult.
"So you thought I had deserted you," I said, and was a little surprised at the gruffness in my voice.
"The violets appeased me," she said, with a smile. For the first time I noticed that she was wearing a large bunch of them. "You will be bankrupt, Mr. Smart, if you keep on buying roses and violets and orchids for me."
So the roses were mine also! I shot a swift glance at the mantelpiece, irresistibly moved by some mysterious force. There were two bowls of orchids there. I couldn't help thinking of the meddling, over-zealous geni that served the hero of Anstey's "Brass Bottle" tale. He was being outdone by my efficacious secretary.
"But they are lovely," she cried, noting the expression in my face and misconstruing it. "You are an angel."