CHAPTER XIX
1
Fanny Garland opened Sorrell's door.
"Bowden has sent these in," she said.
Sorrell turned in his chair. He was sitting at his desk, and Fanny had surprised him in a moment of meditation. She had her arms full of flowers, purple and white iris, wallflowers, rose-red pyrethrum. Her round and pleasant face smiled at him over them. Fanny was growing plump and mature; she had little wrinkles under her eyes, but even her wrinkles had kindness.
"Flowers.—Bowden sent them in—"
"Yes,—for the table,—Kit's dinner."
"Good of Bowden.—You are all being very good to us."
He rose, and stood looking at the flowers, but with an air of inattention, for the coming of Fanny Garland had not broken the current of his thought. Indeed, a double stream was running through his mind, each with i
