“I think you are a very horrid man. Fancy suggesting——”
“I am a humorist, you know.”
“I am afraid I have broken the stalk.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can have it wired.”
He went and opened the lodge gates for her, and stood, hat in hand, as she passed out. He was smiling, but it was an uncomfortable sort of smile that sent Mrs. Brocklebank away wondering whether he was really quite a pleasant person or an ironical beast.
Canterton took the rose to Lavender, who was working through some of the stock lists in the office.
“Nearly lost, but not quite, Lavender.”
The foreman looked cynical, but said nothing.
“Wire it up, and have it packed and sent off to Mr. Woolridge to-night. And, by the way, I have told Mrs. Brocklebank that if she wants any flowers in the future, she must apply to you.”
“I shan’t forget that little trowel of hers, sir, and our Alpines.”