Warburton, hidden behind the vines, waited until she was gone, and then hunted in the grass for the precious flower. On his hands and knees he groped. The dew did not matter. And when at last he found it, not all the treasures of the fabled Ophir would have tempted him to part with it. It would be a souvenir for his later days.
As he rose from his knees he was confronted by a broad-shouldered, elderly man in evening clothes. The end of a cigar burned brightly between his teeth.
"I'll take that flower, young man, if you please."
Warburton's surprise was too great for sudden recovery.
"It is mine, Colonel," he stammered.
The colonel filliped away his cigar and caught my butler roughly by the arm.
"Warburton, what the devil does this mean—a lieutenant of mine peddling soup around a gentleman's table?"
XIX
"OH, MISTER BUTLER!"
Warburton had never lacked that rare and peculiar gift of immediately adapting himself to circumstances. To lie now would be folly, worse than useless. He had addressed this man at his side by his military title. He stood committed. He saw that he must throw himself wholly on the colonel's mercy and his sense of the humorous. He pointed toward the stables and drew the colonel after him; but the colonel held back.