The danger, Dr. Long declared, was now over, and within a week the
invalid was to be moved to Margate.
In a few hours Joyselle was returning to town, and he was glad, for the
strains, more than one, to which his stay had subjected him, were
telling on his nerves.
The rose-garden, even in mid-September, was a pleasant place, and as he
walked along its broad grass paths the violinist wished it were July,
and that the fine standard roses might be in bloom. He loved flowers,
and with the curiously rapid assimilation of superficial knowledge
common to artistic natures, had picked up a considerable amount of
rose-lore at the house of some friends in Devonshire.
There was one big yellow rose on a bush near the middle of the garden,
and bending over it, he buried his nose in it.
"Victor!"
Brigit had joined him unheard, and stood looking at him, her hand held
out. "Let me give you that rose."
But he shook his head. "No, let it die there. It is so beautiful among
the leaves. You are up early."
"Yes. I saw you from the window, and brought you your letters." She
handed him several as she spoke.
"Thanks."
"And--I want to thank you for staying. It is you, and only you, who have
saved Tommy.
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