Claude wiped his pen with characteristic care, and then rose readily enough. He followed Jack down the immensely long, galleried, book-lined library, through a cross-fire of coloured lights from the stained-glass windows, and so to the stairs. Overhead there was another long walk, through corridor after corridor, which had always reminded Jack of the hotel in town. But at last, in the newly decorated wing, the Duke took a key from his pocket and put it in a certain door. And now it was Claude who was reminded of the hotel; for a most striking atmospheric change greeted him on the threshold; only this time it was not a gust of heat, but the united perfume of many flowers, that came from within. The room was fairly flooded with fresh roses. It was as though they had either blown through the open window, or fallen in a miraculous shower from the dainty blue ceiling. They pranked the floor in a fine disorder. They studded the table in tiny vases. They hid the mantelpiece, embedded in moss; from the very grate below, they peeped like fairy flames, breathing fragrance instead of warmth; and some in falling seemed to have caught in the pictures on the walls, so artfully had they been arranged. Only the white narrow bed had escaped the shower. And in the midst of this, his handiwork, stood the Duke, and blushed like the roses themselves. "Whose room is this?" asked Claude, though he knew so well. "Olivia's--I should say Miss Sellwood's. You see, old man, you were writing these awfully clever verses for her; so I felt I should like to have something ready too." "Your poem is the best!" exclaimed Claude, with envious, sparkling eyes. And then he sighed. "Oh, rot!" said Jack, who was only too thankful for his offering to receive the _cachet_ of Claude's approval. "All I wanted was to keep my end up, too. Look here. What do you think of this?" And he took from a vase on the dressing-table an enormous white bouquet, that opened Claude's eyes wider than before. "This is for her, too; I wanted to consult you about it," pursued Jack. "Should I leave it here for her, or should I take it down to the station and present it to her there? Or at dinner to-night? I want to know just what you think." "No, not at dinner," replied Claude; "nor yet at the station." "Not at all, you mean! I see it in your face!" cried the Duke so that Claude could not answer him. "But why not?" he added vehemently. "Where does the harm come in? It's only a blooming nosegay. What's wrong with it?" "Nothing," was the reply, "only it might embarrass Olivia." "Make her uncomfortable?" "Well, yes; it would be rather marked, you know. A bouquet like that is only fit for a bride."