Claire laughed, shrugged, and went slowly forward along the flagged path, up the flower-sprinkled stair, to pause beneath an arch of pink roses and look back with an inquiring smile. Erskine was standing where she had left him, but he did not smile in response, while one might have counted twenty, he remained motionless, his look grave and intent, then he came quickly forward, leapt up the shallow steps and stood by her side. "Thank you!" he said tersely, but that was all. Neither then or later came any explanation of the strange request. For a few moments there was silence, then Erskine harked back to his former subject. "Scottish scenery is very fine, but for restful loveliness, Surrey is hard to beat. You haven't told me yet how you like our little place, Miss Gifford! It's on a very modest scale, but I'm fond of it. There's a homey feeling about it that one misses in bigger places, and the mater is a genius at gardening, and gets the maximum of effect out of the space. Are you fond of a garden?" "I've never had one!" Claire said, and sighed at the thought. "That's one of the Joys that does _not_ go with a roving life! I've never been able to have as many flowers as I wanted, or to choose the right foliage to go with them, or to pick them with the dew on their leaves." She paused, smitten with a sudden recollection. "One day this year, a close, smouldering oven-ey day, I came in from school and found--a box full of roses! There were _dewdrops_ on the leaves, or what looked like dewdrops. They were as fresh as if they had been gathered an hour before. Dozens of roses, with great long stems. They made my room into a bower." "Really! Did they? How very jolly," was Erskine's comment. His voice sounded cool and unperturbed, and Claire did not venture to look at his face. She thought with a pang, that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps Mrs Willoughby had been the real donor ... perhaps he had never thought... She hurried on terrified lest her thoughts might be suspected. "Mrs Fanshawe has been so kind, allowing me to send boxes of fruit and flowers to a friend in hospital. One of our mistresses, who is being treated for rheumatism." "Poor creature!" said the Captain with careless sympathy. "Dull work being in hospital in this weather. How have you been getting on with my mother, Miss Gifford? I'm awfully glad to find you down here, though I should have enjoyed showing you round myself. I'm a bit jealous of the mater there! She's a delightful companion, isn't she? So keen and alert. I don't know any woman of her age who is so young in spirit. It's a great gift, but--" he paused, drew another cigarette from his case, and stared at it reflectively, "it has its drawbacks!" "Yes. I can understand that. It must be hard to feel young, to _be_ young in heart and mind, and to be handicapped by a body that persists in growing old. I've often thought how trying it must be."