A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. I will tell you our plans on the way to the station. Besides, he might hear things.
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