Miss Gilbert smiled superiorly. “You are very much mistaken, Lucille. He often sends flowers to Miss Julia. He sent her a huge armful yesterday morning. I was there when they came. Mine are just a handful.” “Miss Julia!” Molly retorted. “Of course he does. We knew that. She always tells you when she has flowers he’s sent in the parlor, and everybody knows he adores Miss Julia, and that she thinks no end of him. Why, she discovered him, and mothered him too, a year or more before he became the rage. Miss Julia don’t count. And I think he often sends flowers to married women after he’s been to dinner or a dance—he is no end polite—Sên King-lo. But he never, never sent any to a girl before! Ivy, you are the very first. My—don’t I wish it was me!” “There isn’t a girl in Washington who wouldn’t,” Lucille added. Ivy Gilbert snapped off her thread, and laid down her needlework for a moment. “Lucille,” she asked quietly, “would you marry Mr. Sên?” Lucille giggled. “I’d like to—just to see Papa’s face. But I don’t say as I would, not exactly. You don’t have to marry every man that sends you _marrons glacés_, or orchids, or I’d have as many husbands as the late Brigham Young had wives.” “Lucille Smith!” Miss Wheeler assumed a shockedness she did not feel. “Well—isn’t it true? And wouldn’t most of us!” “Yes, I suppose it is,” Molly owned, dimpling happily. “I don’t say I would,” Lucille repeated. “But goodness only knows what I’d say if he asked me. My, what a lark it would be! But I needn’t worry. He won’t ask me. He won’t ask any of us. But, Ivy Gilbert, I don’t believe but half the girls in Washington would jump at the chance.” Ivy’s lip curled. She took up her blouse and re-threaded her needle. “I don’t believe I would really. But it would be supremely exciting to have him ask me. And I’d give my eyes to have a flirtation with Sên King-lo. No girl ever has—and a good few dozens have tried.” Ivy sewed on in silence. “Show them to us, do, Ivy,” Molly broke in. “Too much fag,” the girl replied. “I haven’t the time.” “Was there a note with them?” Lucille Smith questioned. “There was not.” “Ivy,” Molly begged, “tell us. . . . What did you say when you thanked him?” “I have not seen him.” “But when you wrote?” “I haven’t.” “Oh! Oh!” Molly bleated it. “Ivy Gilbert!” Lucille’s was a cry of reproach. “You must!” one of them told her. “You awful goose!” the other told her. “Did he send his card?” Ivy nodded. “Let’s see it!” Miss Smith demanded. “I haven’t got it.” “Whatever!” “Ivy!” “Why should I keep it? I didn’t want it. And our wastepaper baskets are emptied twice a day. It’s one of the things Emma’s most particular about.” Lucille gasped. Molly Wheeler looked on the point of weeping. “Weren’t you glad to get the violets?” she wailed. “I certainly was not. I was displeased,” the sewing girl said coldly. “You idiot! Come on, Molly; she’s hopeless. Let’s get on to Kate’s.”