He rang; the Doctor’s confidential man opened the door, and stood back for him to enter.
“Patient with the Doctor, Morgan?”
“No, sir; past his time. Gone on to the hospital. Back soon.”
Clive stared.
“Miss Praed’s in the drawing-room, sir.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll go up,” said Clive; and he began to ascend two steps at a time. “I hope Jess isn’t ill. Disappointed, I suppose, at finding the old man out.”—“Ah, Janet, darling,” he cried, as he entered the drawing-room, to find his fiancée standing with a bouquet in her hand, looking dreamy and thoughtful.
She flushed up as he caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, and then frowned slightly, and put on the pouting look of a spoiled child.
“Why, what a bonnie bunch of roses!” he cried. “Let’s have one for a button-hole.”
“No, no,” she said hastily, and a pained look of perplexity crossed Clive’s countenance as she held the bouquet from him. Then with forced playfulness, “Mustn’t be touched.”
“All right,” he cried merrily. “I came round this way so as to see you first, pet. Raced up by the early train this morning.”