It was striking nine when he passed the High Street, Kensington, Station; just at the entry a flower-seller, with a basket of early roses and Nice violets, caught his eye. He bought a great bunch, and, calling a passing cab, ordered the driver to take him to the Langham.
Violets were Cécile Lefarge’s favourite flowers.
Love may be a liar, love may be blind, love may be anything you please, but, whatever else he may be, love is a courtier. No frilled marquess of the old regime, by long study, ever knew his monarch’s predilections as a lover by instinct knows the predilections of his mistress.
Hellier bought violets instead of roses, instinctively and not from choice.
At the Langham he found that Mademoiselle Lefarge was in, and a few moments later he was in her presence.
She advanced to meet him, with hand outstretched.
“I have brought you these,” he said, sinking into a chair, whilst she took a seat near him, “and some news—bad news, I am afraid.”
“I am used to that,” replied she, “but any news coming from you can not be entirely bad. You, who have done so much and thought so much for me.”
“I wish I could have done more,” he replied. Then he told her the events of the day, suppressing nothing, altering nothing.
She listened to him attentively. When he had finished she said: