And Ivy tried to look convinced, and to do it cordially. She loved Miss
Julia. She was not convinced, not even greatly impressed or interested.
The ramifications of the color-question—if it had any, that seemed to
obsess so much of worried American thought, and monopolized so much of
American conversation, did not grip her. The color-question shadowed
Europe but lightly as yet. And Ivy Gilbert was self-centered, and did
not have a profound mind. At home she rarely read the _Times_, and never
the _Spectator_, _Outlook_ or _National Review_. And what if, some time
long ago, in the far-off outlandish place where cherry-stones grow
outside of the fruit, and even the King—or was he the Emperor?—or the
Lama?—dined off puppies and mice, and drowned his wives in hot oil if
they displeased him, a man named Sên _had_ saved the life of one of the
Townsends?—_if he had_, how did it credit the Sên now in Washington?
She could not see that it, even if true, put the Chinese man she’d met
at Miss Julia’s on her own plane, or on one at all approaching it—or
that anything ever could or should. But she loved Miss Julia and would
not hurt or vex her for a great deal. So she did her girlish best to
look what she did not feel.
And Miss Julia appreciated it. She was not deceived. But she was pleased
at the girl’s loyal docility and deference. And what did it matter what
the raw, not-much-traveled young thing thought of Sên King-lo? Nothing
at all. So Miss Julia smiled affectionately at her girl-guest, as she
pushed back her chair and said,
“And now, child, if you won’t have just one more pop-over, we’ll go and
cut the roses—after I’ve put these beauties in water.”
And two hours later, Ivy Gilbert, her arms full of roses, went back to
Washington and her nursery-governess duties in her cousin’s—Lady
Snow’s—house in Massachusetts Avenue, and Miss Julia was left alone to
put all the fat, heavily-embossed silver, the pearl-handled knives, the
precious heirloom glass, and the very thin china back in their wrappings
of chamois-leather and lavender.
It was Friday. The garden party at Rosehill had been on a Thursday. On
Saturday morning a small thing befell that had not often happened to Ivy
Gilbert, and very rarely indeed since she had left England: a man sent
her flowers.
Ivy was surprised when a maid brought her the box, dubious even—and she
scrutinized the name and address very carefully. But there was no
loophole of blunder in either. So she untied the silk cord, and lifted
the lid. Violets smiled up at her shyly and fragrantly—and whoever had
sent them had had the taste to send them with an abundance of their own
leaves—and nothing else—but perhaps that good taste had been the
florist’s.
She picked up the card with them and looked at it with curiosity. Then
dropped it back with a little sound of disappointment.
The card was Mr. Sên King-lo’s. But nothing was written on it—nothing
beyond the engraved name.
She was not a little incensed. She felt that he had taken an
unpardonable liberty. It would be taking too much notice of him and of
his insufferable Chinese cheek, to send the violets back. But she would
not have them!
She’d give them to Emily, the under-housemaid. It was Emily’s night out,
and no doubt Emily’d be well-pleased to wear them. Then—she thought of
Miss Julia. Miss Julia valued the man, had said she was fond of him! And
she had met him at Miss Julia’s. No, she mustn’t do that, much as she’d
like to. And they were beautiful violets—dewy and sweet. Well, they
should have a drink for their own sake—the fault wasn’t theirs—and for
dear, foolish Miss Julia’s.
The card and the tissue paper went into the wastepaper basket, but the
presumptuously sent violets went into a bowl of fresh water. And Ivy
carried it up to her own room and left them there, for fear one of her
cousins should ask her who sent them. She’d have been ashamed to tell.
So the violets were more or less tucked away in an inconspicuous corner
of the English girl’s room. And before lunch she had forgotten all about
them in the rush of the day. Saturday always was her busiest day. Lady
Snow made shopping rounds on Saturday mornings, and social rounds on
Saturday afternoons, almost invariably, and household responsibilities
devolved on Ivy, in her cousin’s absence, that the British matron never
deputed when she was at home.
But today Ivy had visitors who would not be denied, but refused to be
barred out by the man-servant’s “Not at home”—and when Ivy couldn’t
come down, insisted upon going up to her. And Ivy alone in the
schoolroom at the top of the house was almost as little pleased to see
them as she had been to see “that Chinaman’s” violets—but not so
surprised. Lucille Smith had a habit of “popping in” at unusual and
inconvenient hours, and never on earth had been known to take “No” for
an answer. And Molly Wheeler had “come along” with the Judge’s daughter.
“I’ll have to go on working,” Ivy told them. “I can’t go to church in
the morning unless I get this blouse finished. I’ve nothing else I can
possibly wear with my new coat and skirt—and no other gown fit to wear.
And I must go to church with the children. It’s one of my charming
duties. They wriggle and whisper all the time. So I must get this done,
and it will take me all my time. So don’t expect me to entertain you.”
“That’s all right,” Miss Smith assured her. “Where are the treasures!”
she asked anxiously, looking about the small room apprehensively.
It was evident that they had not come to call upon either Dick or
Blanche, and it was quite as evident that both the girls were greatly
excited. Perhaps Lucille was going to marry George Hitchock after all,
then.
“Gone to dancing-school with Justine, thank fortune,” their governess
answered, “or I never _should_ get this finished. I’ll have to sew half
the night as it is. Thank goodness they won’t be back for another hour
or more.”
“Thank the Lord!” Lucille Smith cried fervently. “Ivy! Is it _true_?”
“True? What?”
“Did Sên King-lo send you flowers?”
Miss Gilbert in her surprise nearly let the new delicate blouse fall
upon the schoolroom floor.
“Who ever told you that?” she demanded.
“Nobody. I heard him myself, heard him order them. I’m almost sure it
was your name he gave, you he told the man to send them to. Tom went to
talk up Belle’s wedding bouquet—she’s got such a temper, you know,
there’d be the devil to pay—right in the church, perhaps—if it wasn’t
just exactly as she told Tom to have it made, so he didn’t dare order it
over the ’phone or by writing, and he was no end embarrassed, plumb
afraid to go alone—so I had to tag along. Well, when Sên King-lo came
in, I was mighty glad I had. Say! he knew what he wanted, just how many,
just which sort, and about the leaves, and the box; he picked out the
box, just a plain white one, ‘nothing fancy,’ and no ribbons. I hoped
he’d stop and talk a bit, but he only took off his hat and kept it
off—My! isn’t his hair smooth—and Tom was so fidgety I couldn’t make
the running myself. If I hadn’t held on to his coat, he’d have bolted
and cut out of the store. But I did hear Sên King-lo order violets, and
I’ll believe to my dying day it was _you_ he told the clerk to send them
to. Was it? Ivy Gilbert, did Sên King-lo send you violets? Tell us this
minute!”
“Is that what brought you here?” asked Ivy.
“You bet it is!” Lucille exclaimed. And Molly added, “And you can bet
big!”
“Did he?” Lucille begged. “Ivy, did he?”
“Yes, he did,” Ivy said chillingly.
“Oh!” Lucille cried. “Ivy—how perfectly scrumptious! How heavenly!”
And the Senator’s daughter said chokingly, “You lucky, lucky girl!”
Ivy regarded them gravely. “I think it rather an insult,” she said
smoothly.
“Oh!” both the other girls cried. And Lucille Smith added, “Say, Ivy
Gilbert, are you insane? Sên King-lo never sent flowers before! Violets
from Sên King-lo! And you—” words failed.
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.”
“Yes, do,” Ivy said cheerfully. “I _must_ get this done. And I simply
can’t while you girls chatter, and sigh, and ‘Oh!’ and ‘Ah!’ ”
“You might let us see them first,” was Lucille’s final shot.
Ivy made no reply. She sewed on quietly and busily when they really had
gone. But on the whole she felt less affronted by Mr. Sên than she had.
And she wondered if she ought not, in common politeness, to send him a
line of thanks—formal thanks.
The girls had envied her: that was clear.
If further acquaintance was Sên King-lo’s desire, Miss Smith and Miss
Wheeler had done more to accomplish his wish than Miss Julia had.