Mrs. Wintermill looked again, even squinting her eyes. "I suppose they aren't very hardy at this time of the year. I've noticed they perish—"
"Oh, these were exceedingly robust," interrupted Anne. "They'll live for days." Her visitor gave it up, sinking back with a faint sigh. "I've had millions of roses and orchids and violets since I landed. Every one has been so nice."
Mrs. Wintermill sat up a little straighter in her chair. "New York men are rather punctilious about such things," she ventured. It was an inquiry.
"Captain Poindexter, Dickie Fowless, Herb. Vandervelt,—oh, I can't remember all of them. The room looked like Thorley's this morning."
Mrs. Wintermill could not stand it any longer. "What have you done with them, my dear?"
Anne enjoyed being veracious. "I took a whole truckload up to my sister-in-law. She's going to have a baby."
Her visitor stiffened. "I was not aware that you had a sister-in-law. Mr. Thorpe was especially free from relatives."
"Oh, this is George's wife. Dear little Lutie Carnahan, don't you know? She's adorable."
"Oh!" oozed from the other's lips. "I—I think I do recall the fact that George was married while in college. It is very nice of you to share your flowers with her. I loathed them, however, when Percy and Elaine were coming. It must be after five, isn't it?"
"Two minutes after," said Anne.