There was something about these women which faintly roused the reformer in Thurley. They were simply out of step, she insisted, her own little feet always marching to the bandwagon without question. They needed to be shown the inspiration which can be gained from mediocrity. Although they were humorous and a trifle pathetic, they were dangerous, to Thurley’s mind. “What havoc they could raise!” she said to Hobart one afternoon. “They would be capable of playing gnome at sane and settled doorways and calling, ‘Leave your tasks—come out—come out,’ and a great many would follow them. They are seething with discontent and they have the determination which keeps them going, yet they do not tell themselves the truth; they magnify home wrongs and future glories and their own possibilities. And I think,” she added with a frank smile, “they have either never been loved by any one or else loved some one who did not love them. It’s a form of romantic insanity which causes them to denounce love when all the while they crave it—insane persons always turn on the ones who love them best. So these dear, queer girls and women, trying to avoid routine work and home folks, just need to have Cupid take their telephone number and he could accomplish the miracle of miracles.” Chuckling, Hobart had taken his leave. The next afternoon he surprised Thurley with a call, handing her a bouquet of charming wine-colored, white-specked blossoms surrounded by cool fern. She did not thank him; instead she flushed and the blue eyes grew two shades deeper blue. “I thought you’d be terribly set up over an old-fashioned ‘bow pot.’” Hobart was rather mystified. “I am; you chose cleverly.” Thurley hated herself for betraying displeasure. “Why don’t you like Early Morning Brides? They used to be my mother’s favorite; she sent to America for seed and we had one walk lined with them.” Hobart looked like the small boy who had blundered into delivering the love note to the green grocer and the green grocer’s order to the loved one! Thurley’s face had cleared magically. “Oh, is that the name you know them by?” dimples twinkling in her cheeks. “I—I thought it something else.” “What?” determined to solve the mystery. “A silly name, very likely I’m wrong—anyway, you’re a dear and here they go into my best vase and on to my best table!” Later in the day Hobart took time to retrace his steps to the old florist. He asked if Early Morning Brides had ever been known by another name. “Well, some do call ’em Old Maids’ Pincushion,” the man told him, “but I’m one as has no liking for the name!” CHAPTER XXII