Regardless of his giggling daughter’s ideas on the subject of packing, he swept down upon whatever lay nearest at hand and stowed it into one of the two open trunks. His efforts at being helpful were brief. Three determined pairs of hands intercepted his bold attempt to safely caché a small taboret, a large embroidered doyley, a satin chair cushion, a cut glass scent bottle and a Japanese vase. The energetic general’s services were summarily dispensed with. He was banished from the room and the door shut in his face with a bang. In less than fifteen minutes he announced his return by a tattoo which threatened demolishment to the door. He was not re-admitted until he had given his word not to meddle with the packing. When Marjorie cautiously opened the door to him she found him staggering under a load of pasteboard boxes. He dumped them at her feet with a bow so profound that he all but stood on his head.
“There you are, unfeeling child!” he exclaimed. “How shocking to have a daughter who doesn’t scruple to turn her poor old father out of her house!”
“Well, I let you into my house again, didn’t I? Just please recall why you were turned out.” Marjorie clasped both arms about her father’s neck and swung on him gleefully. No one could be the least bit sad when General elected to be funny. Mrs. Dean and Ronny had already busied themselves with straightening the pile of boxes which had scattered when dumped to the floor.
“It’s a good thing for you that you did,” retorted Mr. Dean significantly. “I might have gone away from the door and never NEVER have come back again. Then think what you would have missed.”
“Oh, you would have had to come back sometime,” was the serene assurance, as Marjorie plumped down on the floor to explore her newly-acquired riches.
They were all the heart of a girl could wish. One box contained a white chiffon evening scarf, thickly embroidered with tiny pink daisies. It draped itself in graceful folds to the waist, the ends reaching to the hem of her gown. Another held a white velour sports coat, the cut and design of it being particularly smart. From another box tumbled a dozen pairs of kid gloves. There was also a box of silk hosiery, another of fine linen handkerchiefs with butterfly and bowknot corners, her favorite designs, a box of engraved monogrammed stationery, and a pair of black satin evening slippers.
One long wide box she had left until the last. The lid removed and the folds of white tissue paper lifted, Marjorie breathed a little “Oh!” She stared in admiration at an exquisite evening frock of delicately shaded Chinese crêpe. It might have represented a spring dawn, shading as it did from creamy white to pale, indeterminate violet, and from violet to faintest pink. It was fashioned with a cunning simplicity of design which made it of the mode, yet strikingly individual. About the hem of the skirt, around the square neck and short sleeves and on the ends of the separate sash trailed shadowy clusters of violets, stamped upon the crêpe with an art known only to the Chinese.
“Where did you find it, General?” she gasped, as she held up the lovely, shimmering frock for her captain and Ronny to see. “I never expected to own a dream gown like this.”
“It is a spring poem in shades,” declared Ronny, lightly touching an end of the sash. “I can guess where it came from. Only a high-grade Chinese bazaar could furnish a gown of its kind. There are a few such shops west of the Mississippi. I never saw a gown so beautiful as this one even in San Francisco.”
“It did not come from a shop. A Chinese merchant sent to China for it as a gift to Marjorie. In Denver I have a good friend, Mah Waeo, the last of an ancient Chinese house. He looks like an Eastern nobleman in carved ivory. He is a fine elderly man of irreproachable business and social reputation. He is a tea merchant and has great wealth. He lives very simply and spends most of his business gains in trying to educate and uplift his own people. We have been fast friends for fifteen years.”