A splinter of wood (the furniture was only imitation
Jacobean) had impaled the rag of chiffon, and almost tenderly
releasing it, Rolls folded the trophy away in a breast pocket.
His imagination had not tricked him. The stuff did smell of
fresias--which he proved by holding it to his lips for an instant--the
very scent that had come out to him whenever the dryad door opened, in
reality and memory, the scent he had grown intimate with while the
Moon dress hung in his wardrobe during those days when he had awaited
a chance to present his offering to Ena!
When Logan came back he turned to tell Sims at the door that he would
not be needed again, at any rate, for the present. Then he shut
himself and Peter into the rosy glow of the dining-room.
"At last!" he exclaimed, sinking contentedly into the chair opposite
Rolls. "I feel as if I'd earned a whole bottle of drink. But all's
well that ends well."
"It hasn't quite ended yet, has it?" remarked Peter. "No, thank you,
no champagne!"
"Not ended?" repeated Logan, bottle in hand. "Oh, I see what you're
at!" and he began filling his own glass, already emptied half a dozen
times during the visit of the detectives.
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