They were both very young, so that they suffered the agonies of doubt
and uncertainty, whilst the worldly-wise old dame smiled up her sleeve.

From the hour of the early cup of tea until breakfast-time on the
morning of the ball, which was also the girl's birthday morning,
tarbusched, impudent young monkeys of messenger boys, bearing gifts and
flowers, arrived in a stream at the hotel.

Flowers in pots and vases and bunches lay everywhere in the suite;
shawls of many colours, silken veils, slippers, albums of views of
Egypt, rare antiques (made mostly in Birmingham), one mummied cat
(genuine), scarabs (suspicious), and one live gazelle littered the
place.

Ben Kelham had bought her a finger-napkin ring of dull gold; through it
he had forced some flowers, and sent it along.

She held it tight in her hand for a moment, then deliberately and
ostentatiously laid it amongst the clutter on the table, whilst her
grace peeped from behind the newspaper which she was reading in bed.

Arrived at the table in the breakfast-room, the girl suddenly flushed
pink and then went quite white.

Right in the centre, flanked on one side by the glass dish of glowing
fruit and the other by a cut-glass jar of Keiller's marmalade, stood a
cage tied at the top with silver ribbon and containing two cooing doves.

The doves were just ordinary ones, but their prison was no ordinary