's troubles. "She hasn't got love."

"Love?" Mr. Wilkins could only echo, genuinely scandalized. "But
surely, my dear--at her age--"

"Any love," said Lotty.

That very morning he had asked his wife, for he now sought and
respected her opinion, if she could tell him what was the matter with
Mrs. Arbuthnot, for she too, though he had done his best to thaw her
into confidence, had remained persistently retiring.

"She wants her husband," said Lotty.

"Ah," said Mr. Wilkins, a new light shed on Mrs. Arbuthnot's shy
and modest melancholy. And he added, "Very proper."

And Lotty said, smiling at him, "One does."

And Mr. Wilkins said, smiling at her, "Does one?"

And Lotty said, smiling at him, "Of course."

And Mr. Wilkins, much pleased with her, though it was still quite
early in the day, a time when caresses are sluggish, pinched her ear.

Just before half-past twelve Rose came slowly up through the
pergola and between the camellias ranged on either side of the old
stone steps. The rivulets of periwinkles that flowed down them when
first she arrived were gone, and now there were these bushes,
incredibly rosetted. Pink, white, red, striped--she fingered and smelt
them one after the other, so as not to get to her disappointment too
quickly. As long as she hadn't seen for herself, seen the table in the
hall quite empty except for its bowl of flowers, she still could hope,
she still could have the joy of imagining the telegram lying on it
waiting for her. But there is no smell in a camellia, as Mr. Wilkins,
who was standing in the doorway on the look-out for her and knew what
was necessary in horticulture, reminded her.

She started at his voice and looked up.

"A telegram has come for you," said Mr. Wilkins.

She stared at him, her mouth open.

"I searched for you everywhere, but failed--"

Of course. She knew it. She had been sure of it all the time.
Bright and burning, Youth in that instant flashed down again on Rose.
She flew up the steps, red as the camellia she had just been fingering,
and was in the hall and tearing open the telegram before Mr. Wilkins
had finished his sentence. Why, but if things could happen like this--
why, but there was no end to--why, she and Frederick--they were going
to be--again--at last--

"No bad news, I trust?" said Mr. Wilkins who had followed her,
for when she had read the telegram she stood staring at it and her face
went slowly white. Curious to watch how h