"From him?" chorused the girls.
Cynthia nodded dreamily and handed them the card. Of course they were from him.
If the history of that week could be adequately written the chapter might be headed "The Cult of the Violet."
Cynthia worshipped at the shrine of the valentine violets. She clipped their stems, she changed the water in the vase, she opened the window and shut the register because the room was too warm for violets, she shut the window and opened the register for fear of chilling the flowers. When not on duty elsewhere she might ordinarily be seen sitting in her own room gazing at the purple blossoms like a meditating Yogi.
Some time the flowers would fade and she would dry them and lay them away; but if she could only keep them fresh enough to wear to the matinée on Saturday! Of course they would be a little withered, but he would understand that.
Friday night, both Cynthia and Amelia were elected to dine at the Waldorf with Kittie Dayton and her uncle—an old bachelor uncle who spent several months in New York each winter, and, feeling that he must do something for Kittie at least once during his stay, lightened his penance by inviting two of her prettiest friends to share his hospitality with her.
Cynthia was too deep in romance to be enthusiastic about the outing, but the engagement was of long standing, and even the most love-lorn of boarding-school girls is not wholly impervious to the charms of a good dinner. So the three girls were escorted to the hotel and left in Mr. Dayton's charge. Under his wing they entered the dining-room, found the table reserved for them, and were seated by an impressive head-waiter.
Then they looked about them and Cynthia stiffened suddenly in her chair, while Amelia gave vent to a smothered "Oh!"
Kittie followed their eyes, but couldn't fully appreciate their emotion.
"Why, there's Cecil Randolph at the next table," she whispered joyously. "What larks to meet him off the stage. Isn't he perfectly seraphic?"