He laughed and came across the room towards her impulsively. He was going to carry this through. "You've got me there. Properly." He took the basket from her hand. "Come on, we'll cut the flowers. I'll be absolutely chatty with old Bagshaw." She smiled and her smile encouraged him tremendously. This was the way to do it! They went through the glass doors into the garden and he continued, "Really chatty. I'm going to turn over a new leaf. As a matter of fact, that's why I came back. I got out of bed the wrong side this morning, didn't I?" He felt as he always remembered once feeling as a boy when, after going to bed, he had come downstairs in his nightshirt and said to his father, "I say, father, I didn't tell the truth this morning. I had been smoking." He had never forgotten the enormous relief of that confession, nor the bliss of his father's, "That's all right, old man. That's fine. Don't cry, old chap." And he felt precisely that same enormous relief now. She said, "Was that the reason? How awfully funny of you!" and she gave one of her sudden bursts of laughter. He had a swift feeling that this was not quite the same as the reception of his confession by his father in that long-ago; but he thought immediately, "The thing's quite different." Anyway, he had confessed. She knew why he had come back so suddenly. He felt immensely happy. And when she said, "I think we'll have some of the roses," he gaily replied, "Yes, rather. These roses!" Fine! How easy to be on jolly terms! And immediately it proved not so easy. He had got over the rocks of "niggling"; he found himself in the shoals of exasperation. II She cut the first rose and held it to her lips, smelling it. "Lovely. Who was your letter from, Mark?" He thought, "How on earth did she know?" He had forgotten it himself. "How ever did you know? From Lady Tybar. They're back." "I saw you from the window with the postman. Lady Tybar! Whatever was she writing to you about?" He somehow did not like this. Why "_whatever_"? And being watched was rather beastly; he remembered he had fiddled about with the letter,--half put it in his pocket and then taken it out again. And why not? What did it matter? But he had a prevision that it was going to matter. Mabel did not particularly like Nona. He said, "Just to say they're back. She wants us to go up there." "An invitation? Whyever didn't she write to me?" "Whyever" again!--"May I see it?" He took the letter from his pocket and handed it to her. "It's not exactly an invitation--not formal." She did what he called "flicked" the letter out of its envelope. He watched her reading it and in his mind he could see as perfectly as she with her eyes, the odd, neat script; in his mind he read it with her, word by word. Dear Marko--We're back. We've been from China to Peru almost. Come up one day and be bored about it. How are you? Nona. His thought was, "Damn the letter!"