It was dashed even before the two usually so sedate maids, who seemed, this evening, to emanate some subtle atmosphere of sympathy and giggle, had finished handing round the soup.
“Dear me! Who arranged the flowers like this?” murmured Mrs. Waters, with a mildly bewildered glance at this white-and-silver display. “I thought Blanche was going to have just the little crystal tubs with the pink Maman Cochets and some maidenhair fern?”
“Yes, Mumsie, I was. But Theo would put white heather and syringa!”
“Because—Oh, can’t you see why?” broke in the cornet voice of the youngest of the family, who sat between me and the Major.
And before anyone could answer or check her, this appalling child went on to give chapter and verse for each of her enormities.
“It’s because, you see, syringa’s so awfully like orange-blossoms!—They call it ‘mock orange!’ And I meant it for Billy and Nancy!”
She paused for breath (so did everybody else), then she hurried on.
“Yes! I did the table, because I wanted it to be appropriate! So I took away those everyday bon-bon dishes and fetched out these little china Cupids to hold the choc’lates instead! Aren’t they ducky?”
No one responded, but every eye was upon Theo, who took it all for approval and beamed again, enlarging upon her arrangements.
“And that’s why I got Nancy to put on her white satin”—