"Of course they're for you!" Polly pointed to the address on the cover. "Isn't there any card?" searching gently among the flowers. "I guess Mr. Randolph forgot to put in his card!" Polly's eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Polly Dudley, don't be silly'" The tone was almost impatient.
"It would be lovely for him to send them anyway!" defended Polly.
"And I almost know he did!" she insisted.
"You don't know any such thing!" Miss Sterling was taking the roses out. She brought them to her face and drew in their fragrance. Then she held them at arm's length, gazing at them admiringly.
"Aren't they beautiful!" she said softly. "I wish I knew whom to thank."
"It looks like a man's handwriting," observed Polly.
"It might be Mrs. Lake," mused Miss Sterling, quite ignoring Polly's remark. "Mrs. Lake has always been nice to me. Only she would never omit her card. No, it must be somebody else."
Polly tried the roses on the small table, on the desk, on the dresser—where their reflection added to their magnificence. Finally they were left on the broad window-sill, while the two discussed possible givers. It was Miss Sterling, however, who suggested names. Polly clung to her first thought.
"I told him you had had an awful time with your ankle, and how Miss Sniffen scolded you,"—Polly lowered her voice,—"and I suppose he felt sorry—"
"How Miss Sniffen scolded me? Not about his being there?" The tone was dismayed. "Why, yes! What harm was there?" "Polly! Polly! You didn't say—what did you say?"