Young men approached her and wrote their initials on her programme
which was already marked with little crosses against the numbers she
had promised to Francis Sales. Charles Batty, rather hot, anxious and
glowering, arrived too late. His angry disgust, his sense of
desertion, were beyond words. He stared at her. 'And my flowers,' he
demanded.

'Charles, don't shout.'

'Where are my flowers? I sent some--roses and lilies and maidenhair.
Where are they?'

'I haven't seen them.'

'Ah, I suppose you didn't like them, but the girl in the shop told me
they would be all right. How should I know?'

'I haven't seen them,' she repeated. Over his shoulder she saw the
figure of Francis Sales coming towards her.

'I ordered them yesterday,' Charles continued loudly. 'I'll kill that
girl. I'll go at once.'

'The shop will be shut,' Henrietta reminded him. 'Oh, do be quiet,
Charles.' She turned with a smile for Francis.

'She hasn't a dance left,' Charles said.

'Mr. Sales took the precaution of booking them in advance,' Henrietta