in upon him that he must either break out in some unique and spontaneous manner or blow up. At such times history was apt to be manufactured in bulk. And this—this day of an English June—was one of those times. Mr. Queux was uneasily aware of the unrest simmering within him; very much, no doubt, as Vesuvius is periodically conscious of its divine discontent.
His chair stood by an open window, below which lay an old English garden in full flower, the property of the club and its boast. Through the window a half-hearted breeze wafted gusts of air soporific and heavy with the breath of roses.
Mr. Law drank deep of it, and in spite of his spiritual unrest, sighed slightly and shut his eyes.
An unspoken word troubled the deeps of his consciousness, so that old memories stirred and struggled to its surface. The word was "Rose," and for the time seemed to be the name neither of a woman nor a flower, but oddly of both, as though the two things were one.
He wondered idly why this was so until his mental vision, bridging the gap of a year, conjured up the picture of a lithe, sweet silhouette in white, with red roses at her belt, posed on a terrace of the Riviera against the burning Mediterranean blue.
Mr. Law was dully conscious that he ought to be
