Janey walked fast, and every now and then she ran for little sprints. Her breath sobbed in her throat, her eyes were fixed and her hands clenched. She climbed recklessly over gates, and plunged through copses; her hair was soon almost on her shoulders, flying from her face in wisps, straggling round her ears; her face became flushed and moist with the heat--she tore her sleeve, and scraps of bramble hung on her skirt. What woman but Janey would have rushed to confront a faithless lover in such a state? But even now, when almost any one would have realised how much depended on her appearance, she was careless and oblivious. She did not feel in the least dismayed at the start given by the servant who admitted her, nor, later, by her own reflection in a mirror in the study. It was the same little book-lined room in which she had had tea with Quentin on her first visit to Redpale. There was the glorious Eastern rug which he had said "had her tintings--her browns and whites and reds." There was the big pewter jar that had then held chrysanthemums, but held roses now. They were delicate white roses, faintly, sweetly scented. Janey went over to them and laid her hot face against them. She could hardly tell why, but they seemed to bring into the room an alien atmosphere. Quentin had never given her white roses--as a matter of fact he had given her scarcely any garden flowers, except chrysanthemums--he had once said that only wild flowers were for wild things. She thought of bunches of buttercups, of broom with bursting pods, of hazel sprays and tawny grasses. Now she suddenly wished that he would give her a white rose. She took one out of the jar, and was trying to fasten it in her breast when footsteps sounded outside the room. She turned deadly pale, and dropped the rose. For the first time she felt that she had been foolish to come. Quentin might be angry with her, for her coming would rouse his father's suspicions. Her hurry and desperation might prejudice him against her. In an unaccustomed qualm she realised that she was flushed, dishevelled and perspiring. She felt at a disadvantage, and drew back as the door opened, seeking the shadows by the hearth. "Janey!" He stood in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his chin thrust forward, his pale face bright in the gleaming afternoon. His youth struck her with a sudden appeal--his youth and delicacy, both emphasised in the soft yellow light--and a sob tore up through her breast. "Oh ..." she said, and moved towards him. He shut the door. "Oh, I'm sorry I came!" she cried. He did not speak, but came forward, stopping abruptly a few feet away. "Janey--I want to explain...." "Explain...." She had not thought there would be any explanation needed--or, if needed, possible. "Yes--I ought to have written, but I couldn't, somehow--or rather, I wrote you a dozen letters, and tore them all up." She wondered why she felt so calm. "I--I asked my father to call and see you."