It was not late the next morning when Mr. Sên’s orchids came—to Lady Snow, of course. He sent nothing to Miss Gilbert—but she could scarcely expect her confession-book back so soon. One wrote in confession-books at one’s leisure, and when in the mood. That was understood. “I wonder if he’ll pay his dinner-call today?” Emma said to her husband, when at lunch he’d remarked on the splendid blooms on the table, and she’d mentioned who had sent them. “I don’t suppose he’s going to live here,” Ivy Gilbert remarked rather unnecessarily. “I don’t suppose he is,” Lady Snow said cheerfully, “but he’s sure to call promptly—Charlie said so.” “I?” the knight she’d quoted demanded. “You said the Chinese were punctiliously polite. It amounts to the same thing.” “Bless my soul!” Sir Charles muttered. “I think I’ll go out calling tomorrow instead of today. I’d be vexed to miss him.” “Do you like Mr. Sên?” Ivy asked indifferently. “I don’t dislike him. I thought he was good fun. Do you, Ivy?” “Which?” “Both.” “He is not my idea of fun.” “Nor mine,” Sir Charles added. “But he doesn’t bore me—if that’s what you mean,” the girl owned lazily. “As for liking him—I don’t know him. I’ve met him three or four times. What does that amount to? And, you know, my likes are few. They don’t stretch to China.” “Nor your knowledge,” her cousin Charles reminded her. Ivy nodded contentedly. She was not interested in China or in the Chinese; and she was not going to pretend that she was, even to please dear old Charlie. She’d be polite—for him—but surely that was enough. “Wouldn’t you better put your orchids in the drawing-room, Em?” she said, with a laugh. “I intend to,” Lady Snow retorted. “There is a big vase full there already. I brought these in here for Charlie to enjoy.” “Thank you, my dear.” He might have added—but did not—that he did not care for orchids, except when they were growing. “But I shall only have them in here at meals.” “The peripatetic orchids,” Ivy said gaily. “Well, you and the orchids will have to entertain Mr. Sên all alone, Emma, if he comes. I’m off to Miss Julia’s.” “I rather think I’ll have plenty of visitors today—though it isn’t my day,” Lady Snow returned. “It is in the _Post_, and it’s sure to be copied in the _Evening Star_, that Mr. Sên King-lo dined here last night.” “Great Scott!” was her husband’s comment. Ivy giggled. “Yes,” Emma told her, “I did. Justine knows a reporter. I never have any difficulty getting my nice bits in.” “I wouldn’t do that, dear,” Snow said uncomfortably. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a man. I shall. I like them in. Marion Lawson will be green. He never dined there _en famille_.” “You didn’t put that in!” her cousin cried. And Sir Charles looked distinctly disturbed. “No,” Lady Snow owned. “But I shall tell Marion.” “I’m sure you will,” Ivy laughed, and the man retired philosophically to his ice-pudding. “You’d have looked nice if he hadn’t turned up after all,” the girl remarked.