Lord
Pomfret had come to mend the telephone, and his tool-bag was full of
roses--the scent of them filled the room. Anthony himself was forging
a two-pound note upon a page of Bradshaw, and was terribly afraid that
it would not pass muster: something weighty depended on this, and all
the time the scent of the roses was hindering his efforts: it came
between him and the paper, so that he could not see: he brushed it away
angrily, but it came back....

He awoke suddenly, for no reason.

Patch was lying very still, breathing more easily. His eye met
Anthony's, and the tip of a red tongue came into view.

The faintest suggestion of perfume was in the air. This was so slight
and fleeting that Anthony, after a little, charged it to his
imagination and thought no more of it.

Presently he rose and, setting his hat on the chair, where Patch could
see it and so expect his return, strolled out on to the veranda.

From the depths of an easy-chair Valerie French lifted her eyes from
_The Times_ and smiled very charmingly.

"I'm glad you've come out," she said. "I think it's a mistake to sit
there too long at a time."

That Lyveden felt perfectly at ease with her, and neither started nor
spoke constrainedly, is worthy of note. It is, in fact, the best
possible evidence that his belief in their affinity was well founded.

"You're quite right," he said. "After all, the great thing is to be on
the spot. I'm afraid this means that your dog is ill."

Valerie looked away.

"He's worse than Patch," she said slowly.

"I'm awfully sorry."

As he spoke, Anthony remembered how the dogs had met in the drive a
week ago. That, then, was how Patch had come by the sickness. Her dog
had infected him.

Valerie looked up suddenly.

"I'm afraid I was awfully rude at the inn that day," she said quietly.
"It was rotten of me."

"No, it wasn't," said Lyveden quickly. "You were startled and upset
and----"

"I've said all that to myself--several times. But it won't wash. It
was just rotten, and I'm very sorry."

Had she been other than my lady, Anthony would have felt like a beggar
whose feet a queen was washing. As it was, he felt like a king.

"I knew you never meant it," he said.

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't like you."

"How could you know that?" said Valerie.

"I don't know. I suppose I guessed. I suppose..." Anthony hesitated,
and the colour came into his cheeks. "I think I know you too well."

Valerie F