Might it come to that for Lauraine, and for himself!
"My dear," says Lady Etwynde to Lauraine, as she sits in the boudoir of the latter, "your roses looked charming; there was something so simple and artistic in that arrangement; not like a regular florist's bouquet. But why did you leave them in the garden? I found them lying on the grass when I walked there this morning, and as I love roses, though they have not the subtle meaning of our own peculiar flowers, I brought them in and put them in water."
Lauraine flushes hotly, and then grows as suddenly pale.
"I—I dropped them, I suppose," she says, bending over some crewels she is sorting. "It is of no consequence. I get so many flowers."
Lady Etwynde glances quickly at the beautiful, troubled face. She has taken a warm liking to Lauraine, and when alone with her drops all her fantastic ways and conversation. She leans back now in her low chair, and looks long and thoughtfully at her friend.
"I had not much time to speak to you last night," she says presently; "and you left so suddenly. I was afraid you were ill."
"Oh no—I was only tired," answers Lauraine. "How charming your evening was. I rarely hear such music as at your house."
"Yes; Signor Alfieri was delightful," agrees Lady Etwynde. "Did you like his new song, by the way?"
"Do you mean the English one?" asks Lauraine, feeling an odd little thrill at her heart as she remembers the passionate melody which had so moved and stirred her. "It was perfectly exquisite."
"I wrote him the words," says Lady Etwynde calmly.