CHAPTER XXVII


That night brought the first frost of the season worth counting. In
the morning, when Theron came downstairs, his casual glance through
the window caught a desolate picture of blackened dahlia stalks and
shrivelled blooms. The gayety and color of the garden were gone, and in
their place was shabby and dishevelled ruin. He flung the sash up and
leaned out. The nipping autumn air was good to breathe. He looked about
him, surveying the havoc the frost had wrought among the flowers, and
smiled.

At breakfast he smiled again--a mirthless and calculated smile. "I
see that Brother Gorringe's flowers have come to grief over night," he
remarked.

Alice looked at him before she spoke, and saw on his face a confirmation
of the hostile hint in his voice. She nodded in a constrained way, and
said nothing.

"Or rather, I should say," Theron went on, with deliberate words, "the
late Brother Gorringe's flowers."

"How do you mean--LATE" asked his wife, swiftly.

"Oh, calm yourself!" replied the husband. "He is not dead. He has only
intimated to me his desire to sever his connection. I may add that he
did so in a highly offensive manner."