'Certainly.'

Raggett came in. He looked just as extraordinary as he had at the Savoy
and as difficult to place. His manner could not be said to express
anything, for he had no manner, but his voice was the voice of a shy
undergraduate, while his clothes, Edith thought, suggested a combination
of a bushranger and a conjuror. His tie, evidently new, was a marvel, a
sort of true-lover's knot of red patterned with green, strange beyond
description. He seemed terrified.

'How very kind of you to come and see me,' she said in her sweetest
voice, 'and these lovely flowers! They quite brighten one up.'

'I'm glad you think they're all right,' said Raggett in a low voice.

'They're beautiful. Fancy your plucking them all yourself! Where did you
find these lovely lilies growing? I always fancied they were
hot-house plants.'

'Oh, I was bicycling,' Raggett said. 'I just saw them, you know. I
thought you might like them. How is Ottley?'

'Bruce is very well. Haven't you seen him lately?'

'Not very. I've been working so fearfully hard,' he said; 'at the
British Museum chiefly. One doesn't run up against Bruce there much.'

'No. I suppose he hardly ever goes.'