“I want that rose most particularly. It has to go to one of the greatest rose experts in the country.” “Yes.” “Which way did they go?” “Back to the house, I think.” “I’ll go and have your tea sent out. And I want to catch Mrs. Brocklebank.” Canterton started in pursuit of the lady, found that she had only just left the house, and that he would catch her in the drive. He intended to be quite frank with her, knowing her to be the most inveterate snatcher up of trifles, one of those over-enthusiastic people who will sneak a cutting from some rare plant and take it home wrapped up in a handkerchief. Lavender had told him one or two tales about Mrs. Brocklebank, and how he had once surprised her in the rock garden busy with a trowel that she had brought in an innocent looking work-bag. Canterton overtook her just before she reached the lodge gates, and found Guinevere being carried off as a victim in Mrs. Brocklebank’s belt. “I am afraid you have taken a rose that should not have been touched.” “Oh, Mr. Canterton, I’m sure I haven’t!” He looked whimsically at the rose perched on the top of a very ample curve. “Well, there it is! My wife ought to have warned you——” “She pressed me to take it. My dear Mr. Canterton, how was I to know?” “Of course not.” He was amused by her emphatic innocence, especially when, by dragging in Eve Carfax’s name, he could have suggested to her that he knew she was lying. “You see, my wife knows nothing about flowers—what is valuable, and what isn’t.” Mrs. Brocklebank began to boom. “My dear Mr. Canterton, how can you expect it? I think it is very unreasonable of you. In fact, you ought to mark valuable flowers, so that other people should know.” He smiled at her quite charmingly. “I suppose I ought. I suppose I am really the guilty party. Only, you see, my garden is really a shop, a big general store. And in a shop it is not supposed to be necessary to put notices on certain articles, ‘This article is not to be appropriated.’” “Mr. Canterton!” She took the rose out of her belt, and in doing so purposely broke the stalk off close to the calyx. “I think you are a very horrid man. Fancy suggesting——” “I am a humorist, you know.” “I am afraid I have broken the stalk.” “It doesn’t matter. I can have it wired.” He went and opened the lodge gates for her, and stood, hat in hand, as she passed out. He was smiling, but it was an uncomfortable sort of smile that sent Mrs. Brocklebank away wondering whether he was really quite a pleasant person or an ironical beast. Canterton took the rose to Lavender, who was working through some of the stock lists in the office. “Nearly lost, but not quite, Lavender.” The foreman looked cynical, but said nothing. “Wire it up, and have it packed and sent off to Mr. Woolridge to-night. And, by the way, I have told Mrs. Brocklebank that if she wants any flowers in the future, she must apply to you.” “I shan’t forget that little trowel of hers, sir, and our Alpines.”