"I want you to go to this thing as a D. A. R.," she explained, "not as a Herald reporter."
"Then I'll wear it," I promised, kissing her soothingly. "But you must go, too."
She shook her head again.
"I can't—I really can't!" she said. "I've got nothing fine enough to wear. This is going to be a magnificent thing, every one tells me—with all the local Sons—and this wonderful Major Coleman to lecture on flags."
She looked at me suspiciously as she uttered her plaint about the Sons being present, and in answer, I thrust forward one gray suede pump.
"But I'm ready for any Son on earth—Oldburgh earth," I protested. "Don't you see my exquisite lace collar—and the pink satin rose in my chapeau—and this silken and buskskin footgear? Surely no true Son would ever pause to suspect the 'hunk o' copy paper' which lieth beneath all this glory!"
"Isn't Guilford going with you?" she called after me as I left the house a few minutes later. "Will he meet you at the office?"
"No—thank heaven—it's an awful thing to have to listen to two men talk at the same time—especially when you're taking one down in shorthand—and Guilford is mercifully busy this afternoon."
I had a bunch of pink roses, gathered fresh that morning from our strip of garden, and I stopped in the office of the owner and publisher when I had reached the Herald building. Just because he's old, and drank out of the same canteen with my grandfather I made a habit of keeping fresh flowers in his gray Rookwood vase. This spot of color, together with the occasional twinkle from his eyes, made the only break in the dusty newspapery monotony of the room. He looked up from his desk, and his face brightened as he saw my holiday attire.
"Well, Grace?"