“Tell him there is no answer.”
“Here is his card, madam.”
Cherokee stared wildly, as if a serpent had wriggled around her feet.
“It is from Mr. Frost—this gift,” and she ventured an imploring glance into Marrion’s face.
“What would you do with them?” he asked.
“Do? What can I do but send them back.”
As Marrion watched her admiringly, and saw her take each flower and lay it carefully back into the box, he felt that his quiet friendship was tottering above a molten furnace.
“I trust you approve of my course, Mr. Latham?” she queried, as Annie took the box away.
“It would make me perfectly happy if I were the husband.” He supplemented the impulsive words with a decided blush, in which Cherokee could not choose but join. Then he cried: