"My God, Pat!" he groaned. "I didn't mean to do that."
"I did," she said.
From the roses drooping below her breast she detached a bud, crushed to a perfumed splotch of colour in the fierce pressure of their embrace, and held it out to him.
"Keepsake," she breathed. "It's red, red, red. It's the colour of life. My colour. Pat's colour. Good-night, Mr. Scott."
"Mister" Scott! After that fusion of lips and longings.
CHAPTER XVII
Insistent jangling of the telephone woke Scott next morning at the club. He was prepared for the rough sweetness of Pat's voice in his ear.
"Is that you, Mr. Scott? Aren't you up yet? Lazy!"