A man, who had come quietly down the hall, stood in the open door of the office. He watched her a minute.
He cleared his throat circumspectly.
She turned swiftly—and saw him—and moved a reproachful hand to the flowers.
"You never ought to have done it!"
He smiled on the roses complacently and removed his gloves.
"Like 'em?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I haven't any call to like them—or not to like them!" It was severe disapproval. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"I'm not!" He looked at them with satisfaction. He was whistling softly. "I didn't know you wanted flowers—or I'd have sent them before."
He had turned—his glance was on her face.