“Thank you.”
“I think the lady’s name is Mrs. Brocklebank.”
He was half angry, half amused.
“I might have suspected it. I suppose someone over-ruled your protest?”
“Yes.”
She went on with her work, brushing in a soft background of grey stones and green foliage.
“Was Mrs. Canterton here?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes remained fixed upon the rose in front of her, and the poise of her head and the aloofness of her eyes answered his question before he asked it.
“I want that rose most particularly. It has to go to one of the greatest rose experts in the country.”