from every reading table in the room—letters of gold on a black ground, neatly framed:
Mr. Law announced with the emphasis of absolute conviction:
"Well, I'm damned!"
He touched the rose. It was real beyond all question; a warm red rose, fresh plucked. When impulsively he took it by the stem, he discovered a most indisputable thorn—which did service for the traditional pinch.
Thus persuaded that he was not still dreaming, Mr. Law jumped up from his chair and glared suspiciously round the room. A practical joke in that solemn atmosphere was a thing unthinkable; still, there was the rose.
But the room was empty aside from himself and the rose.
Impulsively he struck a call-bell—and repented, haunted by the fear of making himself ridiculous. It was inconceivable that he should demand of the waiter then approaching, "Who, while I slept, made me a present of this rose?"
The waiter entered to find the member leaning nonchalantly against the table, drawing on his gloves.
"You rang, sir?"
