"Well, how would Everett Morton do? I guess he knows his way about. I always understood that he did." Mr. Gilfeather smiled furtively. The matter of the palms rankled.
Sally looked reflective. "If he is the best man to do it I'll ask him." She sighed. She felt a strange repugnance to asking him—for that service. She had finished her tea and Mr. Gilfeather had finished his. "Well," she said, rising slowly, "I thank you for your advice, Mr. Gilfeather,—and for your tea," she added, "which I have enjoyed."
"The honor is mine," returned Mr. Gilfeather gallantly.
Sally smiled and bowed and was on her way to the door. "Miss Ladue," called Mr. Gilfeather. She stopped and turned. "I wish you would be kind enough to favor me with a bit of advice, too."
"Gladly," said Sally. "What about?"
Mr. Gilfeather came close and spoke low. "It's these palms and ferns. I got 'em this morning. Might I ask your opinion of 'em?"
"Surely, they're very nice and attractive," said Sally doubtfully.
He remarked the doubt. "You don't really think that. Now, do you? Wouldn't real ones be more—more high-toned, as you might say? I was advised that—paper flowers, he called 'em—weren't in keeping. Would you advise me to take 'em out and put in real ones?"
"Oh," Sally answered quickly, "I can't advise you about that. Real ones would be more expensive to keep in order, but they would be better. Don't you think so yourself?"
Mr. Gilfeather sighed. "These'll have to come out," he said sadly. "They'll have to come out, I guess. It's hard luck that I didn't think of asking before I got 'em. But I'm much obliged to you, Miss Ladue."