“Who said you did? Oh, Eva! Eva! I’ve found out something. It wasn’t old Storms that gave you this, anyhow!”
Here James held up a little cluster of sweet-scented violets and sprigs of heliotrope, gathered around a moss rose-bud.
“He picked this, Eva, with his own hands. I wish you could have seen what a fuss he made in putting them together. Old Storms offered to help him, but he said, no! he would do that himself. Then he said, ‘Give this to your sister; I know that she is going out to-night, and shall be honored—that’s the word, Eva—honored if she will wear it.’”
Eva took the tiny bouquet and held it, irresolute, casting a shy glance at her sister, who looked gravely, almost reproachfully at her.
James, who was watching them both, broke forth in his boyish impatience.
“There, now, Ruth, don’t be an old maid, and spoil all her fun. She hasn’t done anything, I tell you. Not one quarter as much as all them Fifth Avenue girls are doing every hour of their lives. Now what are you pouting for?”
Ruth smiled again. A sudden doubt had haunted her for a moment, but it passed from her innocent mind like dew from a lily, and all was bright again.
“Who is he, Eva?” she said, reaching out her hand.
“A gentleman, Ruth, if ever one lived. He has been at the store several times, and Mr. Harold introduced him. They went to school together, and—and that is all. Only his name is Lambert—Ivon Lambert.”
“His mother is as proud as if she were governor of North America; but he isn’t—not a bit of it,” broke in James. “The way he talks to me is quite friendly. That fellow, Boyce, now, would never condescend to it, knowing that I ’tend that baby sometimes; just as if he and his red hair was anything particular. If Mr. Lambert had not been a thorough gentleman, I wouldn’t have brought his flowers, anyway. You ought to have known that, Ruth.”