“That’s exactly what the mail-man told me,” answered Miss Arms. “But I thought—why, your aunt says you asked her to send this Miss Ames a post-card. I don’t understand——”
“There’s some mistake,” Nita equivocated.
“You mean she isn’t your aunt?” demanded Miss Arms.
“Oh, she’s my aunt, fast enough,” laughed Nita, “but she misunderstood about this Georgia Ames.”
“I see,” said Miss Arms doubtfully. “Well, do you want the card?”
“Oh, no,” said Nita politely, though the card was a beauty. “Keep it by all means.”
Miss Arms looked hard at it. “You’re quite sure it doesn’t belong to any one?”
“Perfectly,” Nita assured her. “My aunt—well, she’s a trifle eccentric, you see.”
“I see,” said Miss Arms, and this time she spoke with great positiveness. She confided to a group of her particular friends a little later that she had always wondered why Nita Reese was so funny about some things, and now she had found out. There was insanity in the family,—“Eccentricity, she calls it,” explained Miss Arms, and then told the story of the post-card. One of her friends lived at the Westcott, and consequently knew about Georgia’s violets. There were exciting comparisons, and Georgia’s boom grew amazingly.