“If you had all crossed with Waters as often as I have you would know that he is subject to attacks like that. He means well, but occasionally he gives way in the deplorable manner you have just witnessed. Now all there is of it consists in this—a basket of flowers has been sent (no doubt by mistake) to our state-room. There is nothing but a card on it which says ‘Room 27.’ Steward,” he cried, “would you go to room 27, bring that basket of flowers, and set it on this table. We may as well all have the benefit of them.” The steward soon returned with a large and lovely basket of flowers, which he set on the table, shoving the caster and other things aside to make room for it. We all admired it very much, and the handsome young lady on my left asked Mr. Blair’s permission to take one of the roses for her own. “Now, mind you,” said Blair, “I cannot grant a flower from the basket, for you see it is as much the property of Waters as of myself, for all of his virtuous indignation. It was sent to the room, and he is one of the occupants. The flowers have evidently been misdirected.” 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.”