She spoke almost perfect English, her dress, and style and manner were insular, but there was a flashing grace about her, a suggestion of something warm and Eastern, that gleamed and flashed in spite of her cycling dress and the wheel she pushed along so skillfully. She gave a sigh of regret as the farmhouse was reached. "Well, I suppose we must part," she said. "Really, it seems years since I spoke to a gentleman and I have only been here for days. I have been ordered absolute rest and quietness for the benefit of my health and, upon my word, I am getting it. Would you take pity upon my loneliness and come to tea?" Many an older man than Geoffrey had been excused from yielding to such a request. Those eyes were so dark and pleading, and the man was young. Besides, he had an excuse. Had not his uncle Ralph planned this thing and was it not intended to bring about an introduction! Besides, once inside that room, it might be possible to find something that in the future would yield great results. "I shall be only too pleased," Geoffrey murmured. "Then come along," Mrs. May said gaily. "If you are fond of a good cup of tea, then I have some of the most perfect in the world." She led the way into the old-fashioned drawing-room, which she had rendered beautiful with flowers. The stiff furniture looked stiff no longer. The hand of an artistic woman had been here and the whole aspect was changed. "You should have seen it when I came here," Mrs. May smiled as she followed Geoffrey's glance. "It was like a condemned cell. And yet there are things of price here. A little alteration and a few flowers--ah, what a difference flowers make!" She pointed to her own floral decorations. The room was ablaze with them. And they were all scarlet. There was not a single bloom of any other kind to be seen. "They match my style of beauty," Mrs. May laughed. "I never have any other here." "You do not care for white flowers?" Geoffrey asked. "I abhor them. They suggest beautiful maidens cut off in their prime, dead children, the tomb, and all kinds of horrors. I would not have one in the house." Geoffrey was discreetly silent. Remembering the hundreds of white flowers he himself had seen in this very room not so long ago, this speech staggered him. In a dazed kind of way he watched Mrs. May light a spirit lamp under a silver kettle, after which she excused herself on the score of fetching the famous tea. Geoffrey picked up an album and turned the leaves over rapidly. There were soldiers, one or two native Indian officials, a great number of Society people, professional beauties, and the like and--and Marion! Yes, her fair tender face smiled from the embossed, richly gilt page. The picture had been taken some years ago, but there was no mistaking those pure features. Geoffrey closed the book and walked over to the window. Surprise upon surprise had come upon him lately, but this was staggering.