"If you know what it is. I'm hanged if I do."
Furnival was tearing from its tree a Caroline Testout, one of Brocklebank's choicest blooms. Miss Tarrant cried out:
"Oh, stop him, somebody. They're Mr. Brocklebank's roses."
"They ain't a part of Brockles," Furnival replied.
He approached her with Brocklebank's Caroline Testout, and, with his own dangerous, his outrageous fervor, "You say it f-f-feels," he stammered. "It's what you want, then—something t-tender and living about you. Not that s-scin-t-tillating thing you've got there. It tires me to look at it." He closed his eyes.
"You needn't look at it," she said.
"I can't help it. It's part of you. I believe it grows there. It makes me look at it."
His words came shaken from him in short, savage jerks. To Straker, to Mrs. Viveash, he appeared intolerable; but he had ceased to care how he appeared to anybody. He had ceased to know that they were there. They turned from him as from something monstrous, intolerable, indecent. Mrs. Viveash's hands and mouth were quivering, and her eyes implored Straker to take her away somewhere where she couldn't see Furnival and Philippa Tarrant.
He took her out on to the terrace. Miss Tarrant looked after them.
"That rose belongs to Mrs. Viveash now," she said. "You'd better go and take it to her."