“Yes. Do you want some?” Jim answered, taking the sprig of blossoms from his button hole and halting to decorate Dimmie’s blouse with it. In the dining room there was a little confusion as John pulled out a chair for Nannie and she seated herself with a rustle. She began to serve the soup. Jim observed Lucy stealthily. When the plates were distributed Nannie noticed Dimmie’s adornment. “Why, you’ve lost your flowers, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed, without looking at Jim. “I gave them to Dimmie,” he answered quickly. “Oh,” said Nannie. John regarded Jim with an expression of surprise but lowered his eyes as Jim met his gaze. “I don’t believe Mr. Sprague likes flowers, does he, Lucy?” inquired Mrs. Merwent sweetly. “Of course he does, Mamma,” Lucy declared patiently. There was a brief silence. “Now we’ll have one of the good old evenings!” cried John, rubbing his hands. “By the way, you two are too formal, Nannie. Why don’t you call each other by your names?” “Mr. Sprague doesn’t approve of getting acquainted too rapidly,” retorted Nannie. “I see by the paper that some rich guy has loaned a lot of Corots to the Field Museum. That ought to interest you, John,” remarked Jim, changing the subject. “Do you know, I was thinking of Corot today,” responded John enthusiastically. “His art is a fairy art. He gives you the poetry of Nature without being irritatingly subjective.” “I just love Corot,” put in Mrs. Merwent ecstatically. “Don’t you!” pursued John eagerly. “I tell you, Nannie, that lots of greatly admired things make me sick, jammed full of Christian sentiment, or reminding one of literary illustrations. Why can’t artists stick to their purpose! What was that you said the other evening, Jim, about Botticelli’s _Spring_--that it was both pagan and subtle, wasn’t it?” “Forgotten,” said Jim, who was helping Dimmie to potatoes. “That was it.” Lucy smiled approvingly. “Won’t you have another croquette, Mamma?” “I believe I will, thank you,” assented Mrs. Merwent, even as she spoke accepting the helping. “There! There! That’s more than plenty, Lucy. You’ll have Mr. Sprague thinking I’m a gourmand.” “Good stuff, Lucy,” declared Jim, taking a second croquette himself. “Wouldn’t blame your mother if she were.” “But really, Mr. Sprague, as a rule----” She was interrupted by John. “Jim, why on earth can’t you call Nannie by her name! One would think she was a perfect stranger.” “She is, nearly,” said Lucy, smiling again. “Well, we’re all starting over now,” returned John in a tone of mild reprimand, “and she won’t be in the future, so let’s not be so formal.” An uncomfortable pause followed. “You’ve dropped your flower, John.” As Nannie spoke at last, she picked up the _boutonnière_ from the table and replaced it in the lapel of his coat. “What was that you were saying about art?”