“It’s a boy with a big pasteboard box,” contradicted Mrs. Mortimer, looking down the hall to the open front door.
Seeing someone there to receive it, the boy set the box inside the screen door and started down the steps.
“Bring it here! Bring it here!” called Mrs. Mortimer, commandingly.
“It’s for Lydia,” said Mrs. Emery, looking at the address. She spoke with an accent of dramatic intensity, and a flush rose to her fair cheeks.
Her olive-skinned daughter looked at her and laughed. “What did you expect?”
“But he didn’t care enough about her coming home to be in town to-day!” Mrs. Emery’s maternal vanity flared up hotly.
Mrs. Mortimer laughed again and began taking the layers of crumpled wax-paper out of the box. “Oh, that was the trouble with you, was it? That’s nothing. He had to be away to see about a new electrical plant in Dayton. Did you ever know Paul Hollister to let anything interfere with business?” This characterization was delivered with an intonation that made it the most manifest praise.
Her mother seconded it with unquestioning acquiescence. “No, that’s a fact; I never did.”
Mrs. Mortimer in her turn had an accent of dramatic intensity as she cried out, “Oh! they are American Beauties! The biggest I ever saw!”
The two women looked at the flowers, almost awestruck at their size.