“Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.”

Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. Was it spring tickling her senses⁠—whipping up nostalgia for her “clown,” against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him “the limit.” Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent⁠—sheer emanation from memory? She looked round her. Nothing⁠—not a thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the dining-room. A little daydream of a scent⁠—illusory, saddening, silly! In the silver basket were new cards, two with “ Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,” and one with “ Mr.