"Does he kiss my hand?" questioned the May Girl.
"No—I think not," flushed George Keets. Having no intention in the world of kissing any woman in earnest, it was not in his code, apparently, to kiss a young girl in fun. Very formally, with that frugal, tight-lipped smile of his which contrasted so curiously with the rather accentuated virility of his shoulders, he rose and bowed low over the May Girl's proffered fingers. "Really it's been a great honor. I've enjoyed it immensely!" he conceded.
"Thank you," murmured the May Girl. In a single impulse everybody turned to look at Rollins, only to find that Rollins had disappeared.
"Hi, there, Rollins! Rollins!" shouted young Kennilworth. "You're losing time!"
As though waiting dramatically for just this cue, the hall portieres parted slightly, and there stood Rollins grinning like a Cheshire Cat, with a great bunch of purple orchids clasped in one hand! Now we are sixty miles from a florist and the only neighbor of our acquaintance who boasts a greenhouse is a most estimable but exceedingly close-fisted flower-fancier, who might under certain conditions, I must admit, give bread at the back door, but who never under any circumstances whatsoever has been known to give orchids at the front door. Nor did I quite see Rollins even in a rain- storm actually breaking laws or glass to achieve his floral purpose. Yet there stood Rollins in our front hall, at half- past nine in the morning, with a very extravagant bunch of purple orchids in his hand.
"Well—bully for you!" gasped young Kennilworth. "Now that's what I call not being a mutt!"
Beaming with pride Rollins stepped forward and presented his offering, the grin on his face never wavering.
"Just a—just a trifling token of my esteem, Miss Davies!" he affirmed. "To say nothing of—of——"
The May Girl, I think, had never had orchids presented to her before. It is something indeed of an experience all in itself to see a young girl receive her first orchids. The faint astonishment and regret to find that after all they're not nearly as darling and cosy as violets or roses or even carnations—the sudden contradictory flare of sex-pride and importance—flashed like so much large print across the May Girl's fluctuant face.
"Why—why they're—wonderful!" she stammered.