Not until after the final curtain fell did she see Bob Griffin and then but for a moment. He pushed through the group of perspiring performers—wigs and padded coats and flounces and furbelows are warm wearing in summer at the rear of a row of blazing kerosene lamps—and caught her hand. His eyes were shining.
“You were great!” he whispered. “By George, you were great! Wait till you see what I can do with that portrait after this! You are coming down to see it. Oh, yes! you are. I’ll just make you.”
The carriage was fragrant with flowers when she and Foster Townsend entered it. He put his arm about her shoulder.
“Good girl!” he said with, for him, unusual emphasis. “Good girl, Esther! This settles it so far as that Paris cruise of ours is concerned. It would be a crime to keep you from getting the best teaching there is after you’ve shown us what you can do with what you’ve had. Hang on to your patience till that blasted lawsuit is out of the way, and then we’ll heave anchor.”
The flowers were brought into the library and examined there. Each cluster had a card attached except one. The biggest and finest was from Foster Townsend himself. Esther gave him a hug and kiss.
“They’re dear, Uncle Foster,” she declared. “Thank you ever so much.”
As usual he turned the thanks into a joke.
“‘Dear’ is the right word,” he observed, with a twinkle. “I had ’em sent down from Boston. Must fertilize those greenhouses with dollar bills, I guess. Never mind. Considering what you gave us for ’em they were cheap at the price.”
The floral tribute which bore no card was a bunch of pink rosebuds. Townsend turned them over, searching for the name of the donor.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Wonder who these came from. They don’t seem to be labeled. Do you know who gave you these, Esther?”