"Conybeare," she said, addressing the old Devonian gardener who was trimming the borders a few yards away. "Conybeare, I am going down to Mrs. Brassbound later in the evening. I want you to cut me a nice bunch of grapes and some vegetables—nice ones."
The old fellow touched his cap and moved away. Mrs. Barraclough entered smilingly.
"And I shall want the car, Flora."
"It's all ready. I'll bring it round, madam."
"There's no hurry. Aren't these roses delicious?" She buried her face in the orgy of pink, crimson and yellowy-white blooms. "Give me that bowl, my dear."
And while she took a few from the basket and arranged them in the big silver bowl she continued pleasantly—
"I always wish I were a girl again when I pick roses. There's a sentiment about them—and perhaps a danger—a nice sort of danger. You know, it's very sad to reach an age at which danger no longer exists. By the way, a very singular thing happened to me on my way to the village. I was followed, Flora!"
"Followed! But who'd dare?" said Jane.
Mrs. Barraclough pouted pathetically.
"Please don't say that," she begged. "It makes one feel so old. After all, there is no law to prevent one being followed unless it is the law of selection."