It was almost dark when they reached Marian's home, and Edith waited in the hall, while she went in search of her mother. As she came down-stairs, Mrs. Bently held up a small white card, triumphantly. Marian's face flushed as she saw the name.
"Mr. Thomas E. Drayton."
"It's all right," said her friend, "just wait and see."
Friday morning, the servant who admitted Marian, said that Mr. Drayton had called the previous evening and left some flowers which Miss Reynolds would find in the library.
A great bunch of American Beauties stood on the table, and almost overpowered her with their fragrance.
"Dear, dear Tom! He does love me," she thought. "I'll write him a note."
She sat down to her desk without removing her hat. "Perhaps I've been mistaken all along." The words shaped themselves under her pen: "My Dearest." Then she stopped and surveyed it critically. "Not in the present incarnation of Miss Reynolds." She tore the sheet straight across, and dropped it into the waste basket. Taking another, she wrote:
"My dear Tom:
"The roses are beautiful. I am passionately fond of flowers—of roses especially, and I must thank you for the really great pleasure the 'Beauties' are giving me.
"Sincerely yours,
"Marian Reynolds."
Over his coffee the next morning Tom studied the little note. "I wonder what's the matter. 'My Dear Tom'! 'Marian Reynolds' and not a bit of love in it. It isn't the least bit like her. I must go and see her this afternoon. No, I'll be hanged if I will, she had no business to be out," and he chewed a toothpick savagely. "I'll ask her to go to the theatre."