"Oh, how lovely!" cried Gladys Norman, as she gazed at the ring's exquisite workmanship.
Presently, the two girls stepped back to gaze at their handiwork. In a few minutes they had transformed an austere, business-man's room into what looked like a miniature rose-show. From every point red and white roses seemed to nod their fragrant heads.
"I——" began Gladys Norman, then she stopped suddenly, arrested by a slight sound behind her. She span round on her heel. Malcolm Sage stood in the doorway, with Thompson and William Johnson a few feet behind him.
Slowly and deliberately he looked round the room; then his eyes rested on Lady Dene.
"How do you do, Lady Dene," he said quietly, extending his hand.
For a moment she was conscious of an unaccustomed sensation of fear.
"You're not cross?" she interrogated, looking up at him quizzically, her head a little on one side. "You see, it's the Bureau's birthday, and——" She stopped suddenly.
Malcolm Sage had dropped her hand and walked over to his table.
Picking up the ring he examined it intently, then turned to Lady
Dene, interrogation in his eyes.
"It's from my husband and me," she said simply. "You have such lovely hands, and—and we should like you to wear it."
Without a word he removed the ring from the case and put it on the third finger of his right hand, which he then extended to Lady Dene, who took it with a little laugh of happiness.