“Don’t say a word about them,” hissed Barrett, her fervent admirer, as Maitland came up to us.
“Won’t you both come in to tea,” he said genially. “Parker’s out.”
We left Parker’s melon on his doorstep to chaperon itself, and turned back with him. And sure enough, on his table was the bunch of roses.
“Glorious, aren’t they?” said Maitland, waving his signet ring toward them.
I do believe he had asked us in because of them. He loved cheap effects.
We both looked at them in silence.
“The odd thing is that they were left here without a line or a card or anything while I was out.”
“Then you don’t know who sent them,” said Barrett, casting a warning glance at me.
“Well, yes and no. I don’t actually know for certain, but I think I can guess. I fancy I know my own faults as well as most men, and I flatter myself I am not a coxcomb, but still—”