He was interrupted by another rap on the door.
“Hallo!” he cried. “Come in.”
It was Mitchell with several dozen carnations, the most brilliant yet prized—or priced.
“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Mary.
“For you, Miss Watkins,” cried the newcomer, gracefully offering his homage, “with the assurance of my sincere regret that I came on the scene too late to have been making a scene with you fifty years ago.”
“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, rapturously. But never mind,—Granite, get a tin basin or suthin’ for these flowers.”
“Where’s Burnett?” Jack asked the newcomer,—“isn’t he dressed? It’s getting late.”
“He’s all right,” said Mitchell; “he and Clover are—here they are!”
The two came in together at that second. Clover’s mustache just showed over the top of the largest bunch of violets ever constructed, and Burnett bore with assiduous care a bouquet of orchids tied with a Roman sash.
Aunt Mary leaned back and shut her eyes. If it hadn’t been for her smile, they might possibly have feared for her life.