"I hadn't thought of that."

"They're always included in local guide-books, so I should imagine they
might very well go in. Mr. Broughten would help you there."

"Who's Mr. Broughten?"

"A very clever botanist who lives in the set of chambers opposite. I'll
take you to see him if you've finished your tea. Have you? Then come
along. I know he's in, because we both came up the stairs together. Oh,
don't look so scared, he won't gobble you up. He's an absolute old
dear."

It was getting late, but Lesbia put the thought of time resolutely away,
for Miss Joyce would not listen to her faint expostulations, and hurried
her, protesting indeed but a very willing victim, along the passage
which led to Mr. Broughten's set of chambers. He was at home, and they
were ushered into his study. Like the rest of the Pilgrims' Inn it was a
quaint old room, with black oak beams and diamond-paned windows. The
whole of the walls were lined with shelves, upon which were stored a
vast collection of pressed flowers and ferns, a work which had occupied
Mr. Broughten for most of his life. He was an old man now, and the hand
that held his pen shook as he wrote. He rose with difficulty to receive
his visitors, peering at them through his spectacles. Lesbia was afraid
he did not seem very pleased at being interrupted, but, their errand
once explained, he suddenly became extremely kind and interested. He
hunted out several reports of the proceedings of a local Natural History
Society, in which were given lists of the flora and fauna of the
neighbourhood, and, after a moment's palpable hesitation, even offered
to lend the pamphlets.

"If you will promise _faithfully_ to bring them back. I lose so many
books because people forget to _return_ them," he said emphatically.

Lesbia gave the required pledge, and Miss Joyce also promised for her
with the earnestness of a godmother registering a baptismal vow.

"You shall have my pot of crocuses as a hostage," she assured him,
laughing. "I'll bring them across and leave them with you until Lesbia
returns the books."

"I never refuse flowers," answered Mr. Broughten brightly. "Crocuses are
special pets of mine too. I hope they're purple ones? Good! Then we're
making a very profitable exchange on both sides. If there's any more
help I can give you another time, come and ask me."

Horribly late, but with her mind an absolute storehouse of new and
artistic ideas, Lesbia hurried home to 28 Park Road. It w