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"Bring me a rose, Cerise," he said, cheerily, as he passed his wife. "There are not many of them left now. Here, Florian," he added, tossing him a packet he held in his hand. "A note from pretty Alice at the 'Hamilton Arms.' Have a care, man! there are a host of rivals in the field."
Florian looked at the writing on the cover, and turned pale. This might easily be accounted for, but why should Cerise, at the same instant, have blushed so red—redder even than the rose she was plucking for her husband?
Perhaps that was the question Sir George asked himself as he walked moodily into the house to dress.
