And, of course, if he had not felt like that, he would not have been a real lover.
During the last quarter of an hour before he rang the bell he was preparing phrases to use in presenting the flowers.
“I just saw some fine blooms as I came away, and I thought you might like them, Miss Elizabeth. I remember your saying you were fond of roses.”
No. That was too casual.
“I saw these roses in the garden and they reminded me of you. So I brought them to you.”
No. That was too pointed.
But he wanted to be pointed.
Then he saw a motor before the door and a cart going round to the stables and was thus made aware of a possibility that he had quite left out of his calculations. There were other visitors in the house.
His throat grew quite dry with nervousness and annoyance and disappointment, and he thought he would hide the roses in a bush; but a certain doggedness made him cling to them, and as he stood undecided the Stamfords passed him in their motor and he had to go on or look like a fool.
So he went on, and was ushered into a room half full of people, where Elizabeth sat laughing in a distant window-seat with Dick Stamford and her brother Bill, and he had to account for the roses in his hand.