He jumped out and ran to rescue
what had fallen. It was the bunch of rose haws he had so carefully
denuded of thorns, and which she had worn upon her breast for at least a
short time before she lost it. She had not thrown it away intentionally,
he was sure of that. If she had she would not have flung it
contemptuously into the middle of the road for him to see.
He put it into the pocket of his coat, where it made a queer bulge, but
he could not risk losing it by trusting it to the seat beside him. Until
he had won something that had been longer hers, it was a treasure not to
be lost.
Four miles toward town he passed the riding party and exchanged a fire
of gay salutations with them. When he had left them behind he could not
reach home too soon. He hurried to his rooms, hunted out a receptacle of
silver and crystal and filled it with water, placed the bunch of rose
haws in it and set the whole on his reading-table, under the electric
drop-light, where it made a spot of brilliant colour.
He had an invitation for the evening; he had cared little to accept it
when it had been given him; he was sorry now that he had not refused it.
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