"Law, no. I wish the artists who do the Castoria signs would adopt futurist methods." As she spoke, Miss Barry made herself as small as she could against the arm of the seat, and again caressed her nose with Freddy Whitcomb's violets. The divan opposite was filled with American Beauties, magazines, and bon-bon boxes. "I ought to put the flowers in water," she remarked. Linda's large, somber gaze rolled toward the display. "Yes, please do," she said. "H'm," thought Miss Barry as she rose. "One word for the flowers and two for herself. She wants 'em out of sight." "I think we ought to enjoy the violets," she said aloud. "Such a cabbage of 'em must have cost that boy a pretty penny, and they won't live only so long, anyway. Poor Mr. Whitcomb, didn't he look pretty near ready to have apoplexy when he got off!" "He's got over it by now," said Linda, in her quiet expressionless voice. "He's the kindest boy that ever lived. I didn't realize how many little things there were to attend to in leaving, or I'd have had Henry do them; but Mr. Whitcomb came and put himself at my disposal, and I certainly disposed of him, the good boy." "He is a good boy. He ought to hate us," declared the girl languidly. "Why's that?" "He told me a long time ago that he had invested in--in--" the speaker caught her lip under her teeth. "Now, now," returned Miss Barry soothingly, as the other paused. "He's young, and able to stand a few knockdowns. Every business man gets them sooner or later, and they're lucky when disaster comes early in their career instead of late. Now, now, Linda!" for the girl's handkerchief dried a drop stealing under her eyelid. "He adores you, the nice lad." "Don't you see that makes it harder--as if I ought to marry him to make up?" "Now, now!" Miss Barry tried to speak lightly. "He'd be worse than Shylock. I'll bet it's a hundred and thirty pounds when you're in good case. Aren't those candy boxes wonderful! I must take 'count of stock." She started up and laid the violets on the vacated seat. Linda looked at them. She could hear Freddy Whitcomb's voice as it broke boyishly on that last evening of her life:-- "I don't care anything about your father's money, Linda. I had a raise last week." Her hand fell gently on the velvet mass, and rested there. Miss Barry's Argus eyes observed the movement. CHAPTER XII EN ROUTE Miss Barry took the rest of the flowers and placed their stems in the washbowl, where the lovely blossoms lolled over awkwardly in an increasing haze of dust, after the manner of train flowers; then she stepped back to the divan and inspected the boxes of bon-bons, stuffed dates, mints, and so on. A flat tin box met her eye, and a note was tied against the cover.