Ivy was surprised when a maid brought her the box, dubious even—and she scrutinized the name and address very carefully. But there was no loophole of blunder in either. So she untied the silk cord, and lifted the lid. Violets smiled up at her shyly and fragrantly—and whoever had sent them had had the taste to send them with an abundance of their own leaves—and nothing else—but perhaps that good taste had been the florist’s. She picked up the card with them and looked at it with curiosity. Then dropped it back with a little sound of disappointment. The card was Mr. Sên King-lo’s. But nothing was written on it—nothing beyond the engraved name. She was not a little incensed. She felt that he had taken an unpardonable liberty. It would be taking too much notice of him and of his insufferable Chinese cheek, to send the violets back. But she would not have them! She’d give them to Emily, the under-housemaid. It was Emily’s night out, and no doubt Emily’d be well-pleased to wear them. Then—she thought of Miss Julia. Miss Julia valued the man, had said she was fond of him! And she had met him at Miss Julia’s. No, she mustn’t do that, much as she’d like to. And they were beautiful violets—dewy and sweet. Well, they should have a drink for their own sake—the fault wasn’t theirs—and for dear, foolish Miss Julia’s. The card and the tissue paper went into the wastepaper basket, but the presumptuously sent violets went into a bowl of fresh water. And Ivy carried it up to her own room and left them there, for fear one of her cousins should ask her who sent them. She’d have been ashamed to tell. So the violets were more or less tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of the English girl’s room. And before lunch she had forgotten all about them in the rush of the day. Saturday always was her busiest day. Lady Snow made shopping rounds on Saturday mornings, and social rounds on Saturday afternoons, almost invariably, and household responsibilities devolved on Ivy, in her cousin’s absence, that the British matron never deputed when she was at home. But today Ivy had visitors who would not be denied, but refused to be barred out by the man-servant’s “Not at home”—and when Ivy couldn’t come down, insisted upon going up to her. And Ivy alone in the schoolroom at the top of the house was almost as little pleased to see them as she had been to see “that Chinaman’s” violets—but not so surprised. Lucille Smith had a habit of “popping in” at unusual and inconvenient hours, and never on earth had been known to take “No” for an answer. And Molly Wheeler had “come along” with the Judge’s daughter.