"Very well, just one, and be careful of the powder."

Challoner kissed her right on the lips. "Did you get my flowers? I
sent roses."

"Yes, thank you so much, they are lovely."

She glanced across the room to where several bouquets lay on the table.
Challoner's was only one of them.

That was what he hated--having to stand by and allow other men to
shower presents on her.

He let her go and walked over to the table where the flowers lay. He
was still frowning. Across the room Cynthia Farrow watched him rather
anxiously.

A magnificent cluster of orchids lay side by side with his own bouquet
of roses; he bent and looked at the card; a little flush crept into his
cheek.

"Mortlake again! I hate that fellow. It's infernal cheek of him to
send you flowers when he knows that you're engaged to me----"

He looked round at her. She was standing leaning against the littered
dressing-table, eyes down-cast.

There was a moment of silence, then; Challoner went back and took her
in his arms.