"He sent me some gorgeous orchids this morning," said Anne. Mrs. Wintermill looked again, even squinting her eyes. "I suppose they _aren't_ very hardy at this time of the year. I've noticed they perish—" "Oh, these were exceedingly robust," interrupted Anne. "They'll live for days." Her visitor gave it up, sinking back with a faint sigh. "I've had millions of roses and orchids and violets since I landed. Every one has been so nice." Mrs. Wintermill sat up a little straighter in her chair. "New York men are rather punctilious about such things," she ventured. It was an inquiry. "Captain Poindexter, Dickie Fowless, Herb. Vandervelt,—oh, I can't remember all of them. The room looked like Thorley's this morning." Mrs. Wintermill could not stand it any longer. "What have you done with them, my dear?" Anne enjoyed being veracious. "I took a whole truckload up to my sister- in-law. She's going to have a baby." Her visitor stiffened. "I was not aware that you had a sister-in-law. Mr. Thorpe was especially free from relatives." "Oh, this is George's wife. Dear little Lutie Carnahan, don't you know? She's adorable." "Oh!" oozed from the other's lips. "I—I think I do recall the fact that George was married while in college. It is very nice of you to share your flowers with her. I loathed them, however, when Percy and Elaine were coming. It must be after five, isn't it?" "Two minutes after," said Anne. "I thought so. I wonder what has become of—Oh, by the way, Jane, Percy was saying the other day that Eddie Townshield has really been thrown over by that silly little Egburt girl. He was frightfully gone on her, you know. You wouldn't know her. She came out after you went into retirement. That's rather good, isn't it? Retirement! I must tell that to Percy. He thinks I haven't a grain of humour, my dear. It bores him, I fancy, because he is so witty himself. And heaven knows he doesn't get it from his father. That reminds me, have you heard that Captain Poindexter is about to be dismissed from the army on account of that affair with Mrs. Coles last winter? The government is very strict about—Ah, perhaps that is Percy now." But it was not Percy,—only a boy with a telegram. "Will you pardon me?" said Anne, and tore open the envelope. "Why, it's from Percy." "From—dear me, what is it, Anne? Has anything happened—" "Just a word to say that he will be fifteen or twenty minutes late," said Anne drily.