"For me?" I asked a little dubiously. I lost no time in opening the box. If the shadow of a thought that an admirer of Will's had sent him the flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in Will's smile as he answered,
"For my best girl."
I buried my face in their cool depths. "Violets! O, the beauties! I like the single variety best, don't you, Will? They're so fresh and woodsy." Then my conscience smote me. Violets are expensive this time of year. "Will—weren't they horribly expensive?" Just the same I was pleased to death—as I had heard matinée girls say—and I made up my mind to forego something I needed to offset Will's flattering extravagance. I nursed and tended those violets until the next matinée day came round. When they faded I pressed them between blotting paper, intending when I got back home to put them away with other flowers Will had given me....
It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs. Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after the Christmas matinée were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs. Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will, who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I passed through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me—I had so few acquaintances in Boston—and anticipating a pleasant surprise I followed the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I stopped in the portièred doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of the room was a tall person—whether woman or girl I could not discern. She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go. The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "That's the lady who asked for you over there." He approached the girl, who turned timidly.
"You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she."
It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion.
"There is—there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "I asked to see Mr. Hartley—Mr. William Hartley," she called after the boy, though her voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of savoir faire or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs. William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?"
For a full minute we stood and looked at each other. Under the full light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure were sharply limned. A tall woman has always the best of it in any controversy, though I am sure my vis-à-vis did not realize her advantage. If her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to be pitied. She was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of plainness. Nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. Perhaps she realized the niggardliness of her gifts. There was an evident attempt at primping. Her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the hair-dresser's art. The shoes, too, I felt, were painful: they were so new and the heels so high, and unstable—a radical departure from the common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet themselves. I visualized her home, her life and her commonplace associates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... Will's magnetism, combined with the perfections and never-failing nobility of the stage hero.... I saw it all as clearly as I saw the strained, vari-expressioned face before me. All this in a brief fleeting moment. I smiled encouragingly. Her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and drooping rested upon the violets—and we both understood....
"Won't you sit down?" I said, leading the way to a divan with the idea of easing the situation. "Do have a pillow!—there, is that more comfortable? These sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... I'm sorry Mr. Hartley is not in. Usually he is in at this hour, but to-night he is dining out. I know he will be sorry to have missed you, for I am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers. Yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in sending them. I hope Mr. Hartley wrote and properly thanked you,"—I rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. "He is, as a rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the extra matinées—" I finished with an expressive shrug. There was a disheartening silence.
"I think I must be going," she faltered at last, waiting for me to rise. "I'm afraid I've kept you too long.... You've been very kind.... I hope you haven't been shocked by ... by ... the unconventional way I...." Her speech came in jerks.