As he watched her walk to the door, his eyes fell for the first time on the bouquet of roses and lilies.
"Who brought those?" he inquired.
"I found them in the library," she answered.
"Is there no name?"
For a moment she pretended to look for a card, then shook her head without speaking. As she saw him lying in bed, she wondered if he would ever know the price at which his freedom from arrest had been purchased. Of her own sacrifice she thought little; it was but generous payment of a long outstanding debt. All her imagination was concentrated on Sylvia—her sanguine, happy arrival, the morning's long agony, her hopeless, agonised departure.
"And no message?" the Seraph persisted with a mixture of eagerness and disappointment.
"No."
"I wonder who they can be from."
"One of your numerous admirers, I suppose," Elsie answered carelessly. Then she opened the door, walked wearily to her own room, and tried—unsuccessfully—to cry.