"Yes—" drawled the Reverend Richard, still abstractedly, "very good; and he wants a Boston caterer, and a florist. I know nothing about such things, and I told him I'd ask you, though I did not believe you did, either."
"Oh, yes, I do! Mrs. Maynard always has Rossi, and as for a florist, they must have John Wicks, at the corner here. He's just set up, and it will be such a chance for him."
"Do you think he will do? Mr. Pickens said that expense was no object—that everything must be in style, as he phrased it."
"Oh, he'll do! Anyone will do, at this season. Why, they could decorate the church, and house too, from their own place; but I shan't suggest that."
"Very well, my dear—but I am keeping Mr. Pickens waiting."
"I'll go and speak to him myself," said the lady, excitedly; and she tripped into the study, where the guest was sitting, with his hat on his knees; a tall, narrow-shouldered man, with a shifty eye. Somehow the sight of him was disappointing, she could hardly tell why, for he rose to greet her very politely, and thanked her effusively.
"My wife will be most grateful, I am sure—most grateful for your kindness. It will save her so much trouble."
"Here are the addresses you want," said Mrs. Reed, hastily scratching them off at her husband's desk, "and if Mrs. Pickens wants any others, I shall be happy to be of use to her."
"Thank you! thank you! You see, she's a stranger here, and doesn't know anything about it."
"You have not been in this part of the country before?"