He fitted the key into the lock and swung the door open. The clear afternoon light shone in upon the little shabby room and its worn furniture. There were one or two insignificant belongings of Philip's still lying about the place, and on the writing-table, exactly opposite the spot where he used to sit, a little blue vase, in which was a bunch of violets. Somehow or other it was the one arresting object in the room. They both of them looked at it in equal amazement.
"Is any one living here?" Elizabeth enquired.
"Not to my knowledge," he replied. "No one could take it on without my signing a release."
They moved over to the desk. Elizabeth stooped down and smelt the violets, lifted them up and looked at the cut stalks.
"Is this where you used to sit and write?" she asked.
He nodded.
"But I never had any flowers here," he observed, gazing at them in a puzzled manner.
Elizabeth looked at the vase and set it down. Then she turned towards her companion and shook her head.
"Oh, my dear Philip," she sighed, "you really don't know what makes that girl so uncouth?"
"You mean Martha? Of course I don't. You think that she … Rubbish!"
He stopped short in sudden confusion. Elizabeth passed her arm through his. She replaced the vase very carefully, looked once more around the room, and led him to the door.
"Never mind," she said. "It isn't anything
