The lady referred to took it upon herself to purloin the flower she wanted. As she did so a card came in view with the words written in a masculine hand—
To
Miss McMillan,
With the loving regards of
Edwin J—
“Miss McMillan!” cried the lady; “I wonder if she is on board? I’d give anything to know.”
“We’ll have a glance at the passenger list,” said Waters.
Down among the M’s on the long list of cabin passengers appeared the name “Miss McMillan.”
“Now,” said I, “it seems to me that the duty devolves on both Blair and Waters to spare no pains in delicately returning those flowers to their proper owner. I think that both have been very remiss in not doing so long ago. They should apologise publicly to the young lady for having deprived her of the offering for a day and a half, and then I think they owe an apology to this table for the mere pretence that any sane person in New York or elsewhere would go to the trouble of sending either of them a single flower.”
“There will be no apology from me,” said Waters. “If I do not receive the thanks of Miss McMillan, it will be because good deeds are rarely recognised in this world. I think it must be evident, even to the limited intelligence of my journalistic friend across the table, that Mr. Blair intended to keep those flowers in his state-room, and—of course I make no direct charges—the concealment of that card certainly looks bad. It may have been concealed by the sender of the flowers, but to me it looks bad.”
“Of course,” said Blair dryly, “to you it looks bad. To the pure, etc.”
“Now,” said the sentimental lady on my left, “while you gentlemen are wasting the time in useless talk the lady is without her roses. There is one thing that you all seem to miss. It is not the mere value of the bouquet. There is a subtle perfume about an offering like this more delicate than that which Nature gave the flowers—”
“Hear, hear,” broke in Waters.