The Blue Rose Read Free Page B

into a little group of their own and told him all about the new coffee shop that she was decorating for the Earles. “The motif is Italian,” she said, “but we can’t think what to call it.”
    “What part of Italy?” Stephen Hume inquired, but he was not looking at Clare as he asked the question. He was still looking at Rose so intently that she began to feel rather uncomfortable.
    “Does that matter?”
    “Of course it matters. One part of Italy is as completely different from another as—as—as one woman’s face from another’s.”
    “Well, what part do you suggest?”
    “Make it Florentine,” he said promptly.
    “And call it the Medici,” Clare exclaimed with a sudden inspiration.
    “There is a Medici already,” Francie put in regretfully.
    “Call it the Botticelli,” Stephen said, still looking at Rose.
    “That’s an idea. How does that strike you?” and Clare looked from Derek to Francie.
    “Botticelli.” They looked at each other and tried the name over. “Botticelli,” Francie murmured. “Yes, I think that’s all right. Botticelli. What do you think, Rose? ... Darling, you’ve got pollen all over your nose.”
    “Have I? It’s from smelling those heavenly lilies.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Has it gone?”
    “Not quite.” It was Stephen speaking. “Here,” he said, and he took a clean handkerchief out of his breast pocket. “Shall I do it for you?”
    “Will you? Thank you,” and she put up her face to him. He rubbed the end of her nose gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rose asked. “That’s what you’ve been looking at, isn’t it?”
    “Not altogether. It’s quite gone now,” and he folded the handkerchief carefully and put it back in his pocket.
    “Lilies are my favourite flowers,” Clare said. “I always try to have some in the house.”
    “Are they your favourite flowers too, Miss Woodhouse?” Stephen asked.
    “No, but I do love them. I love all flowers that have a scent—a beautiful scent, that is. I don’t like the smell of chrysanthemums.”
    “Nor do I,” he replied. “I detest it ... A rose ought to be your favourite flower, as it’s your name.”
    “It is as a matter of fact. There’s nothing quite like a rose.”
    “What kind of rose do you like best?” he asked.
    “A blue rose,” she said with a laugh.
    He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
    “Don’t you know the Maurice Baring story?” she asked.
    “No, tell it to me.”
    She was about to tell him when Clive Frenton came up to refill their glasses, and then some more people came into the room; there were more introductions and their little group was split up.
    Clare was a good hostess and kept her guests circulating. This was a nuisance for any two people who happened to want to talk only to each other, but a godsend for those who found themselves stuck or without anyone to talk to at all. Sometimes she brought a stranger up to Rose to be introduced and sometimes she led Rose away to another part of the room to introduce her. The “few friends in for a drink” soon swelled to a large cocktail party. Rose had never before spoken to so many strangers in such a short time, but she found most of Clare’s guests very easy to get on with and she was never left with anyone long enough to exhaust conversation. She was given no opportunity of talking to Stephen Hume again but once she could feel his eyes across the room.
    At last Francie and Derek came up to her. “It’s after eight,” Francie said. “We’re going to drag you home.”
    Rose said good-bye to the couple she had been talking to and they went in search of their hostess.
    “Let’s meet at the shop to-morrow,” Clare said. “Eleven o’clock? Will that be all right? And shall we settle on Botticelli? Will I see you too, Rose? Good. Good-night, my dears. A demain.”
    As they went out they found Stephen by the door. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” He had addressed the question to