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She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering azaleas.

She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney’s voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying.

“Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and now we shan’t have time!”

Irene’s voice answered: “Why not at dinner?”

“How can one talk....”

Jun’s first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.

Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.

“Come on Sunday by yourself—We can go over the house together.”

June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It was not the look of a coquette, but—far worse to the watching girl—of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much.