they went picnicking. The vases in room No. 1 were full of his flowers.
Bowden complained.
"That there young woman's bin at my toolips."
"I gave her permission."
"Why can't she let 'em grow where they was meant to grow?"
"Because she wants to paint them, Bowden."
"Paint 'em? Paint Clara Butt and William Pitt? Ain't they good enough?"
"Portraits, Bowden."
"Yar,—why can't she let 'em alone. Treadin' on the beds—too."
Roland, laughing, told the little lady that she was in diserace.
"My gardener doesn't approve of your painting the lily."
"I'm so sorry. I only took a flower here and there. The next time—I'll ask him. What's his name?"
"He goes by the name of Bowden."
She did dare to ask "His Surliness" for tulips.
"Please, Mr. Bowden,—Mr. Roland says that I may have three or four tulips. Would you cut them for'me? I don't want to spoil your beds."
Bowden cut her a dozen, which was rank treachery to all the grumpy ideals of his gardener's soul. For when Ethel smiled, the whole world smiled with her, and her smile went all over the world.
Such was their honeymoon, the simplest of affairs, a kind of rustic reaction from the glare of the studio and the searchlights of the Press. They had played pathos to the public, and it so happened that they were to play pathos to each other, and to touch the great heart of the world—in reality, as well as in romance.
Sorrell saw them start out on that sunny May morning, with a luncheon basket in the dicky. A dilapidated looking lorry was rumbling Londonwards, and the blue car overtook it, just where the broad straight road began to curve, and a row of Lombardy poplars raised their spires against the blue of the distant hills. In fact, Sorrell saw the thing happen not two hundred yards from the hotel. He heard the note of Scott's horn and saw the grey bulk of the lorry swerve sud-
