"Truly Jack," I besought him, "this Rollins man has got to be suppressed."
"Oh, not to-day—surely?" pleaded my Husband. "Not on the one engagement day of his life? Poor Rollins—when he's having such a thrill?"
"Well—not to-day perhaps," I conceded with some reluctance. "But to-morrow surely! We never have been used you know to starting off the day with Rollins! And two breakfasts in succession? Well, really, it's almost more than the human heart can stand. Far be it from me," I argued, "to condone poor Allan John's lapse from sobriety or advocate any plan whatsoever for the ensnaring of the very young or the unwary; but all other means failing," I argued, "I should consider it a very great mercy to the survivors if Rollins should wake to-morrow with a slight headache. No real cerebral symptoms you understand—nothing really acute. Just——!"
"Oh, stop your fooling!" said my Husband. "What I came in here to talk to you about was Miss Woltor."
"'Woltor' or 'Stoltor'?" I questioned.
"Who said 'Stoltor'?" jerked my Husband.
"Oh, sometimes you say 'Woltor' and sometimes you say 'Stoltor'!" I confided. "And it's so confusing. Which is it— really?"
"Hanged if I know!" said my Husband.
"Then let's call her Ann," I suggested.
With an impulse that was quite unwonted in him my Husband stepped suddenly forward to my biggest, rosiest, most perfect pot of pink hyacinths, and snapping a succulent stem in two thrust the great gorgeous bloom incongruously into his button-hole. Never in fifteen years had I seen my Husband with a flower in his button-hole. Neither, in all that time, had I ever seen him flush across the cheek-bones just exactly the shade of a rose-pink Hyacinth. I could have hugged him! He looked so confused.