“Yes.”
“Which way did they go?”
“Back to the house, I think.”
“I’ll go and have your tea sent out. And I want to catch Mrs. Brocklebank.”
Canterton started in pursuit of the lady, found that she had only just left the house, and that he would catch her in the drive. He intended to be quite frank with her, knowing her to be the most inveterate snatcher up of trifles, one of those over-enthusiastic people who will sneak a cutting from some rare plant and take it home wrapped up in a handkerchief. Lavender had told him one or two tales about Mrs. Brocklebank, and how he had once surprised her in the rock garden busy with a trowel that she had brought in an innocent looking work-bag.
Canterton overtook her just before she reached the lodge gates, and found Guinevere being carried off as a victim in Mrs. Brocklebank’s belt.
“I am afraid you have taken a rose that should not have been touched.”
“Oh, Mr. Canterton, I’m sure I haven’t!”
He looked whimsically at the rose perched on the top of a very ample curve.
“Well, there it is! My wife ought to have warned you——”