“There are some deep red roses, my lady. At your breast they would give the one finishing touch that makes perfect. May I fetch them?” the maid asked eagerly.
“Am I a simple little fool?” Lady Mildred asked herself when she once again entered the room to which she had invited her husband.
Time passed slowly, and once or twice she took up a book only to throw it down again with a sigh of impatience. Eleven o’clock struck, and she began to wonder if he would fail to come.
But at last there was a knock at the door, and in answer to her call John Gaunt strode into the room. His face was drawn and he had the appearance of a man who was exhausted physically and mentally. But his eyes lighted up with admiration and passionate love when they rested on his wife.
“Sit down, dear,” she said nervously. “You look very tired. Did you have a successful meeting?”
As she spoke she took up a cushion, and placed it beneath his head.
“I don’t often wait on you, John,” she said in a low voice.
He could not keep the wonder from his face, for never had she been so gentle, and so entirely fascinating. But he remembered his determination, and kept a tight hold upon himself.
Then she sank down on the rug beside him and rested her elbows on his knees. At first her eyes were cast down, but suddenly she raised them and looked straight at him.
“Mildred,” he whispered hoarsely.