Part 15 (1/2)

His thought was, ”d.a.m.n the letter!”

Mabel handed it back, without returning it to its envelope. She said, ”No, it's not formal.”

She snipped three roses with astonis.h.i.+ng swiftness,--_snip, snip, snip_!

Sabre sought about in his mind for something to say. There was nothing in his mind to say. He had an absurd vision of his two hands feeling about in the polished interior of a skull, as one might fumble for something in a large jar.

At the end of an enormous cavity of time he found some slight remark about blight on the rose trees--the absence of it this year--and ventured it. He had again an absurd vision of dropping it into an enormous cavern, as a pea into an immense bowl, and it seemed to tinkle feebly and forlornly, as a pea would. ”No blight this year, eh?”

”No; is there?” agreed Mabel,--_snip_!

Nevertheless conversation arose from the forlorn pea and was maintained.

They moved about the garden from flower bed to flower bed. In half an hour the shallow basket was beautified with fragrant blooms and Mabel thought she had enough.

”Well, that's that,” said Sabre as they reentered the morning room.

III

Low Jinks, her matchless training at the level of mysteriously performed duties pat to the moment and without command, appeared with a tray of vases. Each vase was filled to precisely half its capacity with water.

There were also a folded newspaper, a pair of small gilt scissors and a saucer. Low Jinks spread the newspaper at one end of the table, arranged the vases in a semicircle upon it, and placed the gilt scissors precisely in alignment with the right-hand vase of the semicircle, and the saucer (for the stalk ends) precisely in alignment with the left-hand vase. She then withdrew, closing the door with exquisite softness. Sabre had never seen this rite before. The perfection of its performance was impressive. He thought, ”Mabel is marvellous.” He said, ”Shall I take them out of the basket?”

”No, leave them. I take them up just as I want them.”

She took up a creamy rose and snipped off a fragment of stalk over the saucer. ”Why does she call you 'Marko'?”

He was utterly taken aback. If the question had come from any one but Mabel, he would have quite failed to connect it with the letter. But there had distinctly been an ”incident” over the letter, though so far closed, as he had imagined, that he was completely surprised.

He said ”Who? Nona?”

”Yes, Nona, if you like. Lady Tybar.”

”Why, she always has. You know that.”

Mabel put the rose into a specimen vase with immense care and touched a speck off its petals with her fingers. ”I really didn't.”

”Mabel, you know you do. You must have heard her.”

”Well, I may have. But long ago. I certainly didn't know she used it in letters.”

He felt he was growing angry.

”What on earth's the difference?”

”It seems to me there's a great deal of difference. I didn't know she wrote you letters.”

He was angry. ”d.a.m.n it, she doesn't write me letters.”

She shrugged her shoulders. ”You seem to get them anyway.”