“See what a belle you are, Betty Ashton!” she exclaimed. “Here you are almost a stranger in Boston and yet being showered with attentions.”
Gravely Betty read aloud the address on the first box.
“Miss Mollie O’Neill, care of Dr. Richard Ashton,” she announced, extending the package to the other girl with a mock solemnity and then laughing to see Mollie’s sudden blush and change of expression. A moment later the second box, also inscribed with Mollie’s name, was presented her. But the final two were addressed to Betty, so that the division was equal.
It was Mollie, however, who first untied the silver cord that bound the larger of her two boxes, and Betty was quite sure that the roses inside were no pinker or prettier than her friend’s cheeks.
“They are from Billy,” Mollie said without any hesitation or pretense of anything but pleasure. “He says that he has sent a great many so that I may wear them tonight and tomorrow and then again tomorrow night to the dance, as I care for pink roses more than any flower. It was good of Meg to ask Billy to come over for her College holiday dance. I should have been dreadfully embarrassed with one of Meg’s strange Harvard friends for my escort. And Billy says he would have been abominably lonely in Woodford with all of us away.”
Mollie’s second gift was a bunch of red and white carnations, bearing Anthony Graham’s card. “How kind of Anthony to remember me,” she protested, “when he was never a special friend of mine. But of course he sent me the flowers because I happened to be yours and Esther’s guest and he is coming here to dinner tonight with Meg. But do please be less slow and let me see what you have received.”
For almost reluctantly Betty Ashton seemed to be opening her gifts. Nevertheless she could not conceal a quick cry of admiration at what she saw first. The box was an oblong purple one tied with gold ribbon. But here at Christmastide, in the midst of Boston’s cold and dampness, lay a single great bunch of purple violets and another of lilies of the valley. Hurriedly Betty picked up the card that lay concealed beneath them. Just as Mollie’s had, it bore Anthony Graham’s name, and formal good wishes, but something else as well which to any one else would have appeared an absurdity. For it was a not very skilful drawing of a small ladder with a boy at the foot of it.
“Gracious, it must be true that John is making a fortune in his broker shop in Wall Street, as Meg assures me!” Betty exclaimed gayly the next moment, thrusting her smaller box of flowers away, to peep into the largest of the four offerings. “I did not realize John had yet arrived in Boston, Meg was not sure he would be able to be with her for the holidays. It is kind of him, I am sure, to remember me, isn’t it Mollie? And there is not much danger of my being unable to wear John’s flowers with any frock I have, he has sent such a variety. I believe I’ll use the mignonette tonight, it is so fragrant and unconventional.”
Betty spoke almost sentimentally and this state of mind was so unusual to her that for a moment Mollie only stared in silence. However, as her friend disappeared into the bathroom to begin her toilet for the evening Mollie remarked placidly, “The violets would look ever so much prettier with your blue dress.”
Esther’s round mahogany table seated exactly twelve guests. On her right was Richard Hunt, the actor, with Anthony Graham on her left, next him was Meg, then Billy Webster and Mollie O’Neill. To the right of Dr. Ashton, Margaret Adams had the place of honor, then came a Harvard law student who was a special admirer of Meg’s, then a new friend of Esther’s and then John Everett and Betty Ashton. As the entire arrangement of the company had been made through Betty’s suggestion, doubtless she must have chosen the companions at dinner that she most desired. Polly’s friend, Richard Hunt, sat on her other side with Meg and Anthony nearly opposite.