He stood uncertainly before her. For a reason that he would have hesitated long to define, he hated to part with that rose; for a reason concerning which he was quite clear, he did not want to produce it there and then.
“You have it?” asked The Girl.
“Er—do you want it?” countered Cartaret.
A shade of impatience crossed her face. She tried to master it.
“I gather from your speech that you, sir, are American, not English. You are the first American that ever I have met, and I do not seem well to understand the motives of all that you say, although I do understand perfectly the words. You ask do I want this rose. But of course I want it! Have I not asked for it? I want it because Chitta will be distressed if we lose it, but also I want it for myself, to whom it belongs, since it is a souvenir already dear to me.”
Her face was alight. Cartaret looked at it; then his glance fell.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m forever putting my foot in things.”
“You have trodden on my rose?” Her voice discovered her dismay.
“No, no! I wouldn’t—I couldn’t. I meant that I was always making mistakes. This afternoon, for instance—And now——”
To the rescue of his embarrassment came the thought that indeed he obviously could not tread on the rose, unless he were a contortionist, because the rose was——