David laughed a little uneasily, and said "Yes"--no more. Whiffs of violets in a lonely flat, for which one can't account, are not altogether pleasant things. David had therefore surrounded himself with violets, in order, when he was greeted with a scent of violets, to be able to say to himself that the scent came from those which he had bought. He had not admitted even to himself what his motive was in buying; nor would he admit it to Mr. Dibbin. There, however, the violets were in several pots, and their fragrance at once drew the notice of a visitor, for the London florist has an art to heighten dull nature in violets and much else. "Have a seat, Mr. Dibbin," said David, "and let us talk." "I am afraid I must be off," began the other. "Well, have a B. and S. any way. I only want to hear from you whatever you can tell me of Mrs. and Miss Violet Mordaunt." "What? You have discovered their names?" cried Dibbin with a start. "I have." "Mr. Harcourt, you are a remarkable man," said the agent with quiet certainty. "Oh, not too remarkable. But since I do know something, you might let yourself loose as to the rest, as I am interested. You have seen the mother, I know. Have you seen the daughter, too?" "Several times." "Pretty girl, eh? Or what do you think?" "Well, I am getting an old man now," said Dibbin; "but I have been young, and I think I can remember how I should have felt at twenty-five in the presence of such a being." "Pretty, you think her, eh?" "Rather!" "Prettier than Gwendoline? Prettier than her sister?" "Well, I don't know so much about that neither--different type--graver, softer in the eye and hair, taller, darker, not so young; but that poor dead girl was something to make the mouth water, too, sir--such a cut diamond! to see her in her full war-paint, turned out like a daisy!--in short, lovely beings, both of 'em, both of 'em." "Fairly well fixed, the mother?" "You mean financially? Oh, I think so. Got a fine place down in Warwickshire, I know--not far from Kenilworth. Good old family, and that sort of thing." "But how on earth this man Strauss, more or less an adventurer, I take it, could have got hold of such a girl, to the extent of drawing her from her happy home, and sending her on the stage. He didn't marry her, Dibbin? He didn't marry her?" "How can I say?" asked Dibbin, blinking. "We can all make a shrewd guess; but one can't be absolutely certain, though the fact of her suicide would seem to be a sort of proof." "What do the mother and Miss Mordaunt think of it? Do they assume that she was married? Or do they know enough of the world to guess that she was not? I suppose you don't know."