During his great scene in the last act the actor faced the Ryder box and Cynthia bore the brunt of his wild raving. Even near-sighted Miss Spogg had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not quite as it should be, and registered a mental vow that she would protest to Miss Ryder against the conspicuousness of box seats; but the girls were too completely absorbed to feel conspicuous, and Cynthia, cheeks flaming, eyes glowing, red lips apart, drank in the love scene as though she hadn't already known it by heart and were not sharing it with hundreds of strangers. She was absurdly young, unspeakably foolish, but she was beyond a shadow of a doubt enjoying life--and it is hard to be severe with any one so pretty and impractical as Cynthia. As the curtain fell upon the hero's hopeless passion the little maid's hands went to her breast, and an instant later a huge bunch of long-stemmed violets dropped at the idol's feet. He did not ruin his curtain pose by picking them up, but for one fleeting second he smiled his thanks. Miss Spogg was, of course, irate; but there were ways of appeasing Miss Spogg, and Cynthia knew them. On Valentine's Day morning the school postman's load was heavy, and the solemnity of chapel was marred by a pervading excitement. Cynthia had valentines--several of them--yet she did not look happy. All of her envelopes bore home postmarks, and she had expected--well, she hardly knew what she had expected, but something, surely. After chapel came French recitation, and the Disappointed One was wrestling in melancholy fashion with the imperfect subjunctive, when a maid appeared at the door. "A box for Miss Weston," she announced to the teacher. "Put it in her room," commanded Mademoiselle. "Please, ma'am, it's flowers. Should I open them?" Mademoiselle smiled. She remembered valentine offerings of her own. "You may be excused to attend to the flowers, Miss Weston. Come back as soon as possible." Cynthia took the big, square box and fled to her room. Her prophetic soul told her what the contents would be. She removed the wrapping and the lid. A gust of fragrance sweetened the room. The blonde head went down over the flowers and the pretty face was hidden in them. Then Cynthia lifted from the box a great mass of long-stemmed single violets, and with fast-beating heart read the legend on the little valentine tucked among the blossoms. "Love's offering," said the valentine. Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class; and when, at the end of the period, Amelia, Laura May and Blanche burst in upon her, she was still sitting with the flowers in her lap and the card in her hand. [Illustration: "Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class"] "From _him_?" chorused the girls. Cynthia nodded dreamily and handed them the card. Of course they were from _him_. If the history of that week could be adequately written the chapter might be headed "The Cult of the Violet."