Klaus Heinrich threw the reins to a servant, and went up and looked at the dark-red roses. They were exceptionally fine--full and velvety, grandly formed, and a real masterwork of nature. Several were already full-blown. "Call Ezekiel, please," said Klaus Heinrich to a moustachioed door-keeper, who came forward with his hand to his hat. Ezekiel, the custodian of the rose-bush, came. He was a greybeard of seventy years of age, in a gardener's apron, with watery eyes and a bent back. "Have you any shears by you, Ezekiel?" said Klaus Heinrich, "I should like a rose." And Ezekiel drew some shears out of the pocket of his apron. "That one there," said Klaus Heinrich, "that's the finest." And the old man cut the thorny branch with trembling hands. "I'll water it, Royal Highness," he said, and shuffled off to the water-tap in a corner of the court. When he came back, glittering drops were clinging to the petals of the rose, as if to the feathers of waterfowl. "Thanks, Ezekiel," said Klaus Heinrich, and took the rose. "Still going strong? Here!" He gave the old man a gold piece, and climbing into the dogcart drove with the rose on the seat beside him through the courtyards. Everybody who saw him thought that he was driving back to the "Hermitage" from the Old Schloss, where presumably he had an interview with the Grand Duke. But he drove through the Town Gardens to Delphinenort. The sky had clouded over, big drops were already falling on the leaves, and thunder rolled in the distance. The ladies were at tea when Klaus Heinrich, conducted by the corpulent butler, appeared in the gallery and walked down the steps into the garden room. Mr. Spoelmann, as usual recently, was not present. He was in bed with poultices on. Percival, who lay curled up like a snail close by Imma's chair, beat the carpet with his tail by way of greeting. The gilding of the furniture looked dull, as the park beyond the glass door lay in a damp mist. Klaus Heinrich exchanged a handshake with the daughter of the house, and kissed the Countess's hand, while he gently raised her from the courtly curtsey she had begun, as usual, to make. "You see, summer has come," he said to Imma Spoelmann, offering her the rose. It was the first time he had brought her flowers. "How courtly of you!" she said. "Thanks, Prince. And what a beauty!" she went on in honest admiration (a thing she hardly ever showed), and held out her small, ringless hands for the glorious flower, whose dewy petals curled exquisitely at the edges. "Are there such fine roses here? Where did you get it?" And she bent her dark head eagerly over it. Her eyes were full of horror when she looked up again. "It doesn't smell!" she said, and a look of disgust showed round her mouth. "Wait, though--it smells of decay!" she said. "What's this you have brought me, Prince?" And her big black eyes in her pale face seemed to glow with questioning horror.