"I am continually receiving flowers without card or comment." "Is it the flowers which annoy you or the lack of comment?" "I love the flowers, but anything in the shape of anonymity is unfair, and I resent it." "I can think of cases," said West, "in which a man might properly send flowers without disclosing his identity--just as I may pass a fine statue and praise it, without telling the statue who I am." He smiled. "Flowers don't resemble statues in the least, and your comparison is unnaturally far-fetched. Another thing, and this annoys me even more: my secretive friend sends flowers from the cheapest florist he can find. I argue from this that he is poor, and cannot afford to send me flowers at all." "Perhaps his home and business in the city are too far from the Fifth Avenue shops." "You are not saying gallant things, Mr. West. I--an unprotected young woman--tell you that I am being annoyed by a strange man. Instead of flying into a chivalrous rage and threatening to wring his neck when you catch him, you stand up for him. Very well. I shall set Bubbles to find out who the man is, and take my own steps in the matter." Her expression was grave and unruffled, though a certain look of amusement might have been detected in her eyes, by a youth less embarrassed than Mr. West was. "Don't do that," he said; "Bubbles could never find out. You wish to know who is sending you flowers?" "Very much. Can _you_ find out?" "I think so. I mean, I'm sure I can." "And when you have found him will you point out to him that in the future he must be open and above-board, or something disagreeable will be done to him?" Mr. West bowed humbly. "How long," she asked, "will it take you to run the creature down?" "Well," said Mr. West, "I could go to the florist whose name is on the box, show my badge, and exact a description of the man who bought the flowers. Then I could give you the description, and if you knew any such man--" "The florist," said Barbara, her expression Sphinx-like, "is just 'round the corner." "I hear," said Mr. West, "and I obey." "I will read a book till you come back," said Barbara. But she didn't read a book; she leaned instead from a window and watched for Mr. West to come out of the studio-building. He came presently, but did not turn east in search of the florist. Neither did he descend the steps. Instead, he took out his watch and sat down, and waited. Barbara in great glee watched him for ten minutes. She was possessed of a devilish longing to fashion out of paper a small water-bomb and drop it on his head. Memories of water-bombs brought up memories of Wilmot Allen and old days. She drew back from the window and was no longer gleeful. Why should men trouble her heart, since she wished and had elected to live, not a woman's life but a man's? She paced the studio, her soul at odds with the rest of her.