A drop of water had
been spilt upon the table from the vase, and there was something almost
fussy in the way that Langholm removed it with his handkerchief.
"Oh," said Severino, "she quite fell in love with the table you found
for me, and Mrs. Woodgate wanted the vase. They were wondering if Mrs.
Brunton would accept a price."
"They don't belong to Mrs. Brunton," said Langholm, shortly.
"No? Mrs. Woodgate said she had never noticed them in your room. Where
did you pick them up?"
Langholm looked at the things, lamps of remembrance alight beneath his
lowered eyelids. "The table came from a little shop on Bushey Heath, in
Hertfordshire, you know. We--I was spending the day there once ... you
had to stoop to get in at the door, I remember. The vase is only from
Great Portland Street." The prices were upon his lips; both had been
bargains, a passing happiness and pride.
"I must remember to tell them when they come to-morrow," said Severino.
"They are the sort of thing a woman likes."
"They are," agreed Langholm, his lowered eyes still lingering on the
table and the vase "the sort of thing a woman likes ... So these women
are coming again to-morrow, are they?"
The question was quite brisk, when it came.
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