After luncheon Gwendolyn took a basket and secaturs into the garden. The sun was bright, but not very warm, and a chilly breeze stirred the weeds and set the tree branches tossing. She limped along the cracked brick pathway to the flowerbeds. Despite the neglect some quite nice roses had managed to grow, and the bright faces of daisies danced to the tune of the breeze. The slight girl put down her basket and hummed softly as she began to gather the best of the blooms.
The early afternoon was quiet, but she could hear a dog barking somewhere; a deep bark. She stopped humming, and sighed. It was the first time there was no dog in her life, and she kept to herself how much she longed for another puppy. She would only have had to hint at it and Newby would have bought her one. But this was not the time. For all she knew, they might wind up in some horrid little garret somewhere. She shivered, then scolded herself. At church on Sunday the vicar had said one should put one’s troubles into the hands of the Lord, and she had done that. In fact, the Lord must be getting rather tired of all the troubles this one small family had asked Him to solve. Still, having done so, it showed poor faith to continue to worry.
She inspected the bouquet she had gathered. The daisies made a nice contrast to the brilliance of the roses. She cut some fronds of fern, then carried her basket back to the house.
She was clever at arranging flowers and was quite proud when she carried the vase upstairs and scratched at Gideon’s door. There was no response, and she crept inside.
At once she heard male voices. He was out on the balcony with someone. She decided to leave her small gift on his table. He would be pleased when he came in and found them. Dear Gideon was always so grateful for the least little thing that—
“Oh, but that’s beastly unfair, Ross! You know very well I have first claim on Falcon! You’ve no right to meet him before I do!”
Gwendolyn put the vase on the table and stood very still, her breath held in check as the two young men strolled in from the balcony.
Laughing, Gideon said, “Youshot him by accident, my good dolt. WhereasIthrottled him quite deliberately.”
“I hope you chose pistols. You’re not much good with—” Morris saw Gwendolyn then. “Oh—the deuce!” he exclaimed, turning very red.
Rossiter looked up, froze, then made a fast recover. “What a charming bouquet. For me, cheerful sparrow? I thank you.”
Gwendolyn remained silent and motionless, her eyes accusing him.
“Er—allow me to present my comrade in arms,” he went on hurriedly. “This bruised gentleman is Lieutenant James Morris. Jamie, at last you meet my dear sister, Miss Gwendolyn Rossiter.”
Morris bowed, his embarrassment heightened when his out-flung hand toppled the vase of flowers. Instinctively, Gwendolyn hurried to right it. Gideon had spoken of his sister in such glowing terms that Morris had expected to meet a great beauty. Unprepared for this small crippled girl with the bright but unremarkable face, he hid his surprise gallantly, and murmured an apology.
Gwendolyn was very pale, but she managed to respond politely, then excused herself and left them.
The two men looked at each other.
Rossiter said, “Damn!”
Limping along the hall, Gwendolyn’s mind was beginning to function again. The man Gideon was to meet was named Falcon. That must mean August Falcon. She felt cold with fear, but in another instant was raging. How unutterably silly gentlemen were! Here was Gideon, come home from the very jaws of death, and certainly aware of how much he was loved and needed. And instead of being grateful and behaving with some vestige of common sense, what must he do but at once challenge one of the most deadly duellists in all England! What a fool, that she had lovingly collected flowers, when she might better have cracked the vase over his idiotic head!
There was no use appealing to him, of course. Or to Papa, or Newby. They were all afflicted by the same diseases: Masculinity. And that impregnable fortress against which tears, pleading, or common sense could not hope to prevail—the Code of Honour.
***
“’Elp! Murder!” Mr. Tummet dodged behind a gilded chair in the gracious entry hall of Falcon House, and flailed his tricorne at the snarling muzzle of the big black dog that strove to come at him.
Two footmen ran up. One called, “Here, Apollo! Nice doggie!”
The monster turned, showing an impressive expanse of bared teeth, and the footman jumped back.
His companion said, “I’ll fetch Mr. Falcon. Just try not to upset him, mate.”
“Upset ’im?” cried Tummet. “I’d like to—Get away you ’ound of ’ell!”
Apparently annoyed by this appellation, Apollo charged in, barking so that the prisms rattled in the great central chandelier.
Tummet resorted to his tricorne.
So did Apollo.
“Leggo, ’orrid ’ound,” demanded Tummet, hanging on and heaving. “Look what yer doing to me titfer-tat!”
“What the devil…? Apollo! Back, sir! Back!”
Mr. August Falcon stalked across the hall, and the dog gamboled to meet him, shaking Mr. Tummet’s tricorne, and growling with the air of a puppy who was only playing.
