"It seems to me," said Sylvia, "the most unnatural, _treacherous_ thing I ever heard of." She and Woodville were sitting in the library together after breakfast, and he had just told her of Ridokanaki's invitation. "Besides, I thought you hated him, Frank!" "If we only dined with people we like, we should practically starve in London." "But why dine with my enemies?" "He worships the ground you tread on." "Then it's all the worse! He wants to spoil our happiness for his own selfish purpose. You know that, and yet you go!" "Darling, beautiful angel, do let me use my own judgment! I want to hear what he has to say. Don't be angry, Sylvia. I couldn't very well refuse on the ground that he was in love with you, when we--you and I--are not officially--you see, dearest! Of course, it's better I should go." The door opened slowly and Sir James came in like a procession, and sat down slowly, in his stately, urbane manner. "Excuse me one moment, Sir James," murmured Woodville, and he collected some papers and vanished. Sylvia waited a few minutes and then rose. "Don't go, Sylvia," said her father mildly. She stopped. Sylvia was the only person with whom Sir James was never peremptory. "What has become," he said, a little nervously, though with his usual formality, "of that very sumptuous basket of flowers Mr. Ridokanaki was so kind as to send you?" "It's in the housekeeper's room, papa." Sylvia's voice to-day was very sweet and high; a sign to those who knew her of some perturbation or cussedness, as Savile used to say. "Hum! There must be several floral offerings there. To the best of my belief--correct me if I am mistaken--four arrived last week." "Oh yes, there are _heaps_, papa! It's a perfect garden of flowers." "So I suppose.... Will you have them brought up to the drawing-room at _once_!--or, when convenient, darling?" "No, papa. Several are rather faded." Sir James paused, then with an attempt at calm determination said, with finality-- "If any more arrive, will you recollect, my dear, that I _wish_ them to be placed in the drawing-room?" "Oh, I don't like so many flowers in the drawing-room, papa. But, if you like, I might send them on to one of the hospitals. Perhaps the 'Home of Rest for Chows and Poodles' might----" "Ridiculous, child! They would not be appreciated there. What do our canine friends care for carnations?" He smiled with satisfaction at the phrase. In his mind he saw a neat letter to the papers--the sort of thing he dictated to Woodville, and never sent--about "Flowers and Our Four-footed Favourites," signed "Paterfamilias." He was proud of his well-turned phrases, but, though pompous, he was not persistent, and when his secretary had once heard these rigmaroles, and their author had seen them in type--I mean typewriting--Sir James felt for the moment satisfied, and said he had "done a good morning's work." "I won't have them sent to any hospital, Sylvia. I forbid it."