Medfield selected one and held his pencil thoughtfully poised for a moment—and smiled as he jotted something down.
He slipped it into an envelope and pencilled the address and handed it to his son.
"Give that to Munson, will you? Tell him to pick three dozen of the best roses in the garden, and send them to-day.... Tell him the best ones!" he added exactly.
The young man glanced at the address carelessly. His face lighted up.
"Fine! I'll tell him to send her some corking ones—a big bunch of them!"
"You can tell him what I said," said his father dryly. "And have them sent to-day."
"All right, sir." He half turned away. "I'd like to pick some roses myself—for Miss Canfield— You won't object, I suppose?" His father's roses were sacred.
But Herman Medfield waved it away. "Pick all you like." He was gracious with it.
"But not the best ones," laughed the boy. He tucked the card in his pocket and went out.