Later on he was talking to Miss Dangerlie. He had taken her out of the throng. “Do you know who introduced me to you?” he asked. “Yes, Mrs. Drivington.” “No, a little girl.” “Who? Why, don’t you remember! I am surprised. It was just in the doorway!” “Oh! yes, I remember well enough. I met a beauty there, but I did not care for her. I met you first on the stairway, and a child introduced me.” “Children interest me, they always admire one,” she said. “They interest me, I always admire them,” he said. “They are true.” She was silent, then changed the subject. “A singular little incident befell me this evening,” she said. “As I was coming home from a luncheon-party, a wretched woman stopped me and asked me to let her look at me.” “You did it, of course,” he said. She looked at him with her eyes wide open with surprise. “What do you suppose a man said to me upstairs?” he asked her. “What?” “That you were engaged to someone.” “What! That I was engaged! To whom, pray?” She looked incredulous. “To a fellow I saw up there--Mr. ‘Router’, I think he said was his name.” “The idea! Engaged to Mr. Router! You did not believe him, did you?” “No, of course I did not; I trust you entirely.” She buried her face in the roses she held in her hand, and did not speak. Her other hand rested on the arm of her chair next him. It was fine and white. He laid his on it firmly, and leaning towards her, said, “I beg your pardon for mentioning it. I am not surprised that you are hurt. Forgive me. I could not care for you so much if I did not believe in you.” “It was so kind in you to send me these roses,” she said. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She turned them round and gazed at them with her face slightly averted. “Yes, they are, and yet I hate to see them tied that way; I ordered them sent to you loose. I always like to think of you as arranging roses.” “Yes, I love to arrange them myself,” she said. “The fact is, as beautiful as those are, I believe I like better the old-fashioned roses right out of the dew. I suppose it is old association. But I know an old garden up at an old country-place, where my mother used to live as a girl. It used to be filled up with roses, and I always think of the roses there as sweeter than any others in the world.” “Yes, I like the old-fashioned roses best too,” she said, with that similarity of taste which always pleased him. “The next time I come to see you I am going to bring you some of those roses,” he said. “My mother used to tell me of my father going out and getting them for her, and I would like you to have some of them.” “Oh! thank you. How far is it from your home?” “Fifteen or twenty miles.” “But you cannot get them there.”