To Letty’s amazement the box contained a quantity of exquisite exotic flowers despatched by a well-known florist in Monte Carlo. On the top of these, lay a card on which was inscribed, “From H. Blagdon, with all good wishes.”
And once more, hope whispered a flattering tale to the matchmaker. Was she to have her own way with the world, after all?
“Oh, they are from Mr. Blagdon!” exclaimed the girl. “Surely there must be some mistake—how very funny!”
“How very kind, you should say,” corrected her aunt. “I am positive they couldn’t have cost a penny less than fifty francs—just look at these carnations and orchids! We will have some vases and put them about the room.”
“No, no, no,” protested Letty; “please not! I don’t like hothouse flowers in a bedroom; but do you take them; they will look beautiful below stairs.”
“Oh, very well, I never refuse a good offer,” declared her visitor, collecting them into the box. “I suppose you will write and thank him?”
“Must I?” asked the invalid with flickering colour.
“Well, perhaps as you are not feeling very well I had better do it for you; the post goes out in ten minutes,” and carrying the flowers in one hand, with the precious card in the other, Mrs. Fenchurch effected a precipitate departure.
Whatever Mrs. Fenchurch had said in her letter, the result was, that boxes of flowers now arrived at The Holt about twice a week; and once more the atmosphere within, thawed with the atmosphere without!