“White violets. You remember those white violets I’ve been sending you every year on our wedding anniversary? Well, what I mean to say, our lives are parted and all that sort of thing, but you won’t mind if I go on sending them--what? Won’t hurt you, what I’m driving at, and’ll please me, see what I mean? So, well, to put the thing in a nutshell, if you haven’t any objection, that’s that.” Jane reeled against the gate-leg table. “William! Was it you who sent those violets?” “Absolutely. Who did you think it was?” “William!” cried Jane, and flung herself into his arms. William scooped her up gratefully. This was the sort of thing he had been wanting for weeks past. He could do with a lot of this. He wouldn’t have suggested it himself, but, seeing that she felt that way, he was all for it. “William,” said Jane, “can you ever forgive me?” “Oh, rather,” said William. “Like a shot. Though, I mean to say, nothing to forgive, and all that sort of thing.” “We’ll go back right away to our dear little cottage.” “Fine!” “We’ll never leave it again.” “Topping!” “I love you,” said Jane, “more than life itself.” “Good egg!” said William. Jane turned with shining eyes to little Braid Vardon. “Braid, we’re going home with daddy!” “Where?” “Home. To our little cottage.” “What’s a cottage?” “The house where we used to be before we came here.” “What’s here?” “This is.” “Which?” “Where we are now.” “Why?” “I’ll tell you what, old girl,” said William. “Just shove a green-baize cloth over that kid, and then start in and brew me about five pints of tea as strong and hot as you can jolly well make it. Otherwise I’m going to get the cold of a lifetime.” CHAPTER IX THE PURIFICATION OF RODNEY SPELVIN It was an afternoon on which one would have said that all Nature smiled. The air was soft and balmy; the links, fresh from the rains of spring, glistened in the pleasant sunshine; and down on the second tee young Clifford Wimple, in a new suit of plus-fours, had just sunk two balls in the lake, and was about to sink a third. No element, in short, was lacking that might be supposed to make for quiet happiness. And yet on the forehead of the Oldest Member, as he sat beneath the chestnut tree on the terrace overlooking the ninth green, there was a peevish frown; and his eye, gazing down at the rolling expanse of turf, lacked its customary genial benevolence. His favourite chair, consecrated to his private and personal use by unwritten law, had been occupied by another. That is the worst of a free country--liberty so often degenerates into licence. The Oldest Member coughed. “I trust,” he said, “you find that chair comfortable?” The intruder, who was the club’s hitherto spotless secretary, glanced up in a goofy manner. “Eh?” “That chair--you find it fits snugly to the figure?” “Chair? Figure? Oh, you mean this chair? Oh yes.” “I am gratified and relieved,” said the Oldest Member.