Do you suppose if I'd married
Sir Philip thirty years ago he'd be pelting me with roses now?"--enjoyably.
"Of course not. It'd be the tradesmen's books, most likely!"
"You wicked cynic!"
Lady Susan laid her hand impulsively on the girl's arm.
"Not really, Ann," she said hastily. "I know that if only a man remembers
the roses, marriage may mean heaven on earth. But they so often forget"--a
little wistfully. "And a woman does so _hate_ to be taken for
granted--regarded as a kind of standing dish!"
Came a regular barrage of flowers from a car to their right, and Ann,
recognising a party of friends, returned them measure for measure.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by her, the third-prize car had drawn alongside,
intervening between herself and the car-load of friends. She had already
raised her arm to speed a final rosebud on its way, and then, with a sudden
shock of surprise, she recognised in one of the occupants of the prize car
the Englishman with the grey eyes. He was sitting beside an extremely
pretty woman and looking somewhat haughty and ill-tempered, as though the
whole business of the fete bored him excessively.
She tried to check her action, but it was too late.
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