George carried a basket. He laid it upon the floor. Then he turned and kissed his Mary. He put his arms about her; held her to him for a moment in a tremendous hug; pressed his lips to hers; held her away, drinking love from her pretty eyes; again kissed her and again hugged.
She gasped: “I shall crack in half in a minute if you will be so ridiculous.”
He laughed; let her free. He led to the tottering bench that stood across the room, sat her there, and taking her little gloved hand patted it between his.
“Fine, Mary,” he said, “to see you again! Fine! It seems months!”
“Years,” Mary whispered, giving one of the patting hands a little squeeze. “Years. And you never sent me a line. I've not had a word with you since you came up on the lawn that day and said you had passed your exam. You simply _bolted_ off, you know.”
“You got my letter, though, this morning?” George said. He dropped her hand; fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He was becoming a little nervous at the matter before him.
Mary told him: “Well, that was _nothing_. It was such a _frantic_ letter! What is all the mystery about?”
“I'll tell you the whole story.” George got from the bench and began to pace, filling his pipe.
With a tender little smile Mary watched her George's dear face. Then, as he still paced, lit his pipe, gustily puffed, but did not speak, a tiny troubled pucker came between her eyes. There was a suspicion of a silly little tremor in her voice when at last she asked: “Anything wrong, old man?”
George inhaled a vast breath of smoke; let it go in a misty cloud. With a quick action he laid his pipe upon the table; sprang to her side. His right arm he put about her, in his left hand he clasped both hers. “Nothing wrong,” he cried brightly; “not a bit wrong. Mary, it's a game, a plot, a dickens of a game.”
“Of course, if I can. Oh, do tell me, Georgie!”
He sprang to the basket; unstrapped the lid; threw it back. A most exquisite orange head upreared. A queenly back arched. A beautiful figure stepped forth.
“_George!_” Mary cried. “George! _The Rose!_ You've found her!”
George gave a nervous little crack of laughter. “I never lost her.”
“You _took_ her! _You_--took her! Oh, George, speak sense! Whatever can you mean?” Mary had jumped to her feet when first the Rose stepped forth; now was close to her George--face a little white, perplexed; hands clasped.