Later in the afternoon Booth came face to face with Hetty. He was descending the stairs and met her coming up. The sun streamed in through the tall windows at the turn in the stairs, shining full in her uplifted face as she approached him from below. He could not repress the start of amazement. She was carrying a box of roses in her arms—red roses whose stems protruded far beyond the end of the pasteboard box and reeked of a fragrant dampness.
She gave him a shy, startled smile as she passed. He had stopped to make room for her on the turn. Somewhat dazed he continued on his way down the steps, to suddenly remember with a twinge of dismay that he had not returned her polite smile, but had stared at her with most unblinking fervour. In no little shame and embarrassment, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. She was walking close to the banister rail on the floor above. As he glanced up their eyes met, for she too had turned to peer.
Leslie Wrandall was standing near the foot of the stairs. There was an eager, exalted look in his face that slowly gave way to well-assumed unconcern as his friend came upon him and grasped his arm.
"I say, Leslie, is—is she staying here?" cried Booth, lowering his voice to an excited half-whisper.
"Who?" demanded Wrandall vacantly. His mind appeared to be elsewhere.
"Why, that's the girl I saw on the road—Wake up! The one on the envelope, you ass. Is she the one you were telling me about in the club—the Miss What's-Her-Name who—"
"Oh, you mean Miss Castleton. She's just gone upstairs. You must have met her on the steps."
"You know I did. So THAT is Miss Castleton."
"Ripping, isn't she? Didn't I tell you so?"
"She's beautiful. She IS a type, just as you said, old man,—a really wonderful type. I saw her yesterday—and the day before."