"I'm so sorry," faltered Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, and conscious of her heightened colour and the violet-stained gloves that had once been white. "I thought Johnnie was playing a joke."
Lady Dene nodded brightly, whilst Gladys Norman stooped to pick up the benzine bottle, then with a motion of her head indicated to William Johnson that his presence was no longer required. Reluctantly the lad turned, and a moment later the door closed slowly behind him.
"I want you to help me," said Lady Dene, dropping the roses on to the leaf of Gladys Norman's typing-table. "These are for Mr. Sage."
"For the Chief?" cried Gladys Norman in astonishment. Then she laughed. The idea of a riot of red roses in Malcolm Sage's room struck her as funny.
"You see," said Lady Dene, "this is the birthday of the Malcolm Sage Bureau, and I'm going to decorate his room."
"I don't----" began Gladys Norman hesitatingly, when Lady Dene interrupted her.
"It's all right," she cried, "I'll take all the responsibility."
"But we've got no vases," objected Gladys Norman.
"My chauffeur has some in the car, and there are heaps more roses," she added.
"Heaps," repeated Lady Dene, dimpling with laughter at the consternation on Gladys Norman's face. "Ah! here they are," as the door opened and a mass of white roses appeared, with a florid face peering over the top.
"Put them down there, Smithson," said Lady Dene, indicating a spot in front of Gladys Norman's table. "Now fetch the vases and the rest of the roses."
Lady Dene laughed. She was thoroughly enjoying the girl's bewilderment.
"He won't be here for half-an-hour yet," she said. "He had to go down into the city."
"That will just give us time," cried Lady Dene, stooping and picking up an armful of the white roses. "You bring the red ones," she cried over her shoulder, as she passed through Malcolm Sage's door, just as Smithson entered with several purple vases.
Picking up the red roses, Gladys Norman followed the others into Malcolm Sage's room. Her feelings were those of someone constrained to commit sacrilege against her will.
"Water, my Lady?" repeated Smithson, looking about him vaguely, as Moses might have done in the wilderness.
"Yes; ask the lad. Be quick," cried Lady Dene, with deft fingers beginning to arrange the roses in the vases. "Oh! please help me," she cried, turning to Gladys Norman, who had stood watching her as if fascinated.