I will reach L. at
nine-thirty, get out to the club for a couple of hours with you, and
catch the midnight express back to Chicago. Pin my blossoms close to
your heart, and bid it heed what they whisper.
H. P.
Eleanor read the note twice, conscious of the fact that a dozen envious
eyes were watching her. She considered this quite the most romantic thing
that had happened to her. For a man like Mr. Phipps to travel sixteen
hours out of the twenty-four just to dance with her was a triumph indeed.
It made her think of her old friend Joseph, in the Bret Harte poem, who
Swam the Elk's creek and all that,
Just to dance with old Folingsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
Not that Eleanor felt in the least humble. She had never felt so proud in
her life as she smiled a little superior smile and slipped the note in
her bosom.
"Not orchids!" exclaimed Kitty Mason, poking an inquisitive finger under
the waxed paper.
"Why not?" Eleanor asked nonchalantly. "They are my favorite flowers."
"But I thought the orchid king was in Chicago?"
"He is--that is, he was. He's probably on the train now. I have just had
a note saying he was running down for the dance and would go back
to-night.
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