"One always likes one's friends to see one off," she remarked sedately. "And meet one?" He glanced at the letter in her hand. "And meet one. Certainly." Her chin went up. "I hadn't to ask Clare. But you needn't come. Good-bye!" "Oh, I'm coming--now," he assured her, smiling. Alwynne's eyebrows went up. "But it's market-day, you know----" "Yes." "You're awfully busy." "Yes." "The new stuff's coming in." "Yes." "Are you coming, Roger?" "Yes, Alwynne." "Then, Roger dear--if you are coming, and it's no bother, and you can spare them, would you bring me a tiny bunch of your roses? Not for me--for Clare. She does love them so. Do, Roger!" "I'm hanged if I do," cried Roger, and went his wrathful way. But he did. A big bunch. More than enough for Clare. CHAPTER XXXVIII Alwynne was out of the train a dangerous quarter minute before it came to a standstill, and making for the bunch of violets that bloomed perennially in Elsbeth's bonnet. There followed a sufficiency of kissing. It was like a holiday home-coming, thought Alwynne, of not so very long ago. But not so long ago she would have been exclusively occupied with Elsbeth, and her luggage, and her forgotten compartment; would not have turned impatiently from her aunt to scan the length of the platform. Not a sign of Clare? And Clare had promised to meet her.... She prolonged as long as she might her business with porters and ticket collectors and outside-men, but Clare did not appear; and she left the station at last, at her aunt's side, sedately enough, with the edge off the pleasure of her home-coming.