"Heavens, May," the hostess said over her shoulder. "Here is your carnation. I hope you are pleased with the bearer." Barnstable stood hesitating, looking around as if to discover the hostess. On the face of Mrs. Croydon only was there sign of recognition. She bowed at him rather than to him, with an air so distant that no man could have spoken to her after such a frigid salutation. The stranger turned redder and redder, made a half step toward Mrs. Croydon, and then stopped. Fortunately Mr. Harbinger hastened up, and presented him to the hostess. That lady greeted him politely, but she had hardly exchanged the necessary commonplaces, before she put out her hand to where May stood watching in dazed surprise. "Let me present you to Miss Calthorpe," she said. "Mr. Barnstable, May." She glided away with a twinkle in her eye which must have implied that she had no fear in leaving the romantic girl with a lover that looked like that. May and Barnstable stood confronting each other a moment in awkward silence, and then the girl tossed her head with the air of a young colt that catches the bit between his teeth. "I had quite given you up," she said in a voice low, but distinct. "Eh?" he responded, with a startled look. "Given me up?" "I have been watching for the carnation all the afternoon." "Carnation?" he echoed, trying over his abundant chins to get a glimpse of the flower in his buttonhole. "Oh, yes; I generally wear a carnation. They keep, don't you know; and it was always the favorite flower of my wife." "Your wife?" demanded Miss Calthorpe. Her cheeks grew crimson, and she drew herself up haughtily. "Yes," Barnstable replied, looking confused. "That is, of course, she that was my wife." "I should never have believed," May observed distantly, "that 'Love in a Cloud' could have been written by a widower." Barnstable began to regard her as if he were in doubt whether she or he himself had lost all trace of reason. "'Love in a Cloud,'" he repeated, "'Love in a Cloud'? Do you know who wrote that beastly book?" Her color shot up, and the angry young goddess declared itself in every line of her face. Her pose became instantly a protest. "How dare you speak of that lovely book in that way?" she demanded. "It is perfectly exquisite!" "But who wrote it?" he demanded in his turn, growing so red as to suggest awful possibilities of apoplexy. "Didn't you?" she stammered. "Are you running it down just for modesty?" "I! I! I write 'Love in a Cloud'?" cried Barnstable, speaking so loud that he could be heard all over the room. "You insult me, Miss--Miss Calthump! You--"