"I know where there are wild flowers to burn: I was at a place yesterday where you could hardly walk for them; I counted seven different kinds in a space about as big as this room."
"Where?" demanded Mr. and Mrs. Ranny in one breath.
"Out Anchordale way—I don't know the name of the road. It's an out-of-the-way sort of place. Never was there myself until yesterday."
"Could you find it again?" Mrs. Ranny asked with an enthusiasm hitherto reserved for her poodle.
"Sure," said Quin, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back with the frankest and best-natured of smiles. "I never saw so many cowslips and buttercups and yellow violets, and these here little arums."
"Arums!" repeated Eleanor. "What do you know about wild flowers?"
"I lived with 'em up in the Maine woods," said Quin. "I don't know their high-brow names, but I know the kind of places they grow in and where to look for 'em."
"Let's take him along!" said Mrs. Ranny. "We won't mind being a bit crowded in the motor, will we?"
Involuntarily all eyes turned toward Harold Phipps.
"Not in the least," he said, flicking an ash from the sleeve of his uniform with a dexterous little finger, "especially as I am not going to be with you all the way. These bucolic joys are hardly in my line. I'll get you to drop me at the Country Club."