“Do not trouble, madam,” said her husband, watching her. “I make no doubt Mr. Wharton’s hothouses can supply you with others.”
Lady Dalrymple lifted her head, and stared at him with parted lips and flushed face, and a curious little movement of her hand like horror.
“The Queen gave it to me for Harry’s grave,” she said simply.
The Master of Stair flushed and started as if from a blow.
“You have burnt it?” asked Lady Dalrymple, with a glance at the fire.
The silence answered her.
“Well, well,” she said desperately, “I suppose you do not care that his little grave should go bare—only—to-morrow was his birthday—good-night, sir.”
She went quietly out of the room.
The Viscount glanced sideways at his son’s face, and was silent.