Chapter VII
ON the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea Oliver Haddo left at Margaret’s door vast masses of chrysanthemums. There were so many that the austere studio was changed in aspect. It gained an ephemeral brightness that Margaret, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. When Arthur arrived he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You must think me very inconsiderate.”
Margaret smiled and held his hand.
“I think I like you because you don’t trouble about the common little attentions of lovers.”
“Margaret’s a wise girl,” smiled Susie. “She knows that when a man sends flowers it is a sign that he has admired more women than one.”
“I don’t suppose that these were sent particularly to me.”
Arthur Burdon sat down and observed with pleasure the cheerful fire. The drawn curtains and the lamps gave the place a nice cosiness, and there was the peculiar air of romance which is always in a studio. There is a sense of freedom about it that disposes the mind to diverting speculations. In
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