Robert brought her an armful of sweet-peas. He laid it on the table, put his hands behind his back, and kept them there till the end of the visit. She knew quite well why he had come, and though she also knew that he would fail, she loved him too much to snub him or to stare in virtuous indignation. “Why have you come?” she asked gravely, “and why have you brought me so many flowers?” “My garden is full of them,” he answered. “Sweet-peas need picking down. And, generally speaking, flowers are plentiful in July.” She broke his present into bunches—so much for the drawing-room, so much for the nursery, so much for the kitchen and her husband’s room: he would be down for the night. The most beautiful she would keep for herself. Presently he said, “Your husband is no good. I’ve watched him for a week. I’m thirty, and not what you call hasty, as I used to be, or thinking that nothing matters like the French. No. I’m a plain Britisher, yet—I—I’ve begun wrong end, Mrs. Elliot; I should have said that I’ve thought chiefly of you for six years, and that though I talk here so respectfully, if I once unhooked my hands—” There was a pause. Then she said with great sweetness, “Thank you; I am glad you love me,” and rang the bell. “What have you done that for?” he cried. “Because you must now leave the house, and never enter it again.” “I don’t go alone,” and he began to get furious. Her voice was still sweet, but strength lay in it too, as she said, “You either go now with my thanks and blessing, or else you go with the police. I am Mrs. Elliot. We need not discuss Mr. Elliot. I am Mrs. Elliot, and if you make one step towards me I give you in charge.” But the maid answered the bell not of the drawing-room, but of the front door. They were joined by Mr. Elliot, who held out his hand with much urbanity. It was not taken. He looked quickly at his wife, and said, “Am I _de trop_?” There was a long silence. At last she said, “Frederick, turn this man out.” “My love, why?” Robert said that he loved her. “Then I am _de trop_,” said Mr. Elliot, smoothing out his gloves. He would give these sodden barbarians a lesson. “My hansom is waiting at the door. Pray make use of it.” “Don’t!” she cried, almost affectionately. “Dear Frederick, it isn’t a play. Just tell this man to go, or send for the police.” “On the contrary; it is French comedy of the best type. Don’t you agree, sir, that the police would be an inartistic error?” He was perfectly calm and collected, whereas they were in a pitiable state. “Turn him out at once!” she cried. “He has insulted your wife. Save me, save me!” She clung to her husband and wept. “He was going—I had managed him—he would never have known—” Mr. Elliot repulsed her. “If you don’t feel inclined to start at once,” he said with easy civility, “let us have a little tea. My dear sir, do forgive me for not shooting you. _Nous avons changé tout cela_. Please don’t look so nervous. Please do unclasp your hands—” He was alone.