The name on the card was Horace Bradford, the pencilled address University Club, on the reverse were the words, “May I give myself the pleasure of calling to-morrow night?  These February violets are in remembrance of a May ducking.  Am in town for two days only on college business.”

“The day that he rowed us on the Avon and reached too far up the bank to pick you wild violets and the boat shot ahead and he fell into the water,” laughed Miss Lavinia, as pleased as Sylvia at the recollection.

“But I am going to you to-morrow evening,” said Sylvia, ruefully at thought of missing a friend, but quite heart-free, as Miss Lavinia saw.

“Let me take the card, and I will ask him to dinner also,” said the dear, comfortable, prim soul, who was still bubbling over with love of youth, “and Barbara shall ask her adopted uncle Cortright to keep the number even.”

Time, it seems, had flown rapidly.  She had barely slipped the card in her case when the door opened and No. 3 approached solemnly and whispered, “Mrs. Latham requests, Miss, as how you will come and pour tea, likewise bringing the ladies, if still here!” How those words still here smote the silence.

We immediately huddled on our wraps, anxious to be gone and spare Sylvia possible embarrassment, in spite of her protestations.  As No. 2 led the way to the door a gentleman crossed the hall from the card-room and greeted Sylvia with easy familiarity.  He was about forty, a rather colourless blonde, with clean shaven face of the type so commonly seen now that it might belong equally either to footman or master.  His eyes had a slantwise expression, but his dress was immaculate.

Strolling carelessly by the girl’s side I heard him say, “I came to see if you needed coaxing; some of the ladies are green over their losses, so have a care for your eyes.”  Then he laughed at the wide-eyed look of wonder she gave him as he begged a violet for his coat.

But Sylvia drew herself up, full an inch above him, and replied, decidedly, but with perfect good nature, “No, those violets are a message from Shakespeare,—­one does not give such away.”

“That is Monty Bell,” said Miss Lavinia, tragically, as soon as the door closed.

“Is there anything the matter with him except that his colouring is like a summer squash?” I asked.

“He’s been divorced by his wife, and it was her mother that was my friend, not his, as Mrs. Latham hinted.  I know the story; it makes me shiver to see him near Sylvia.”  Then Miss Lavinia drew into a shell, in which she remained until we reached home.

Meanwhile, as we drove in silence, I remembered that Richard’s rubber boots leaked, and I wondered if Martha Corkle would discover it, or if he was paddling about getting his feet wet and bringing on a sore throat.  But when I got home Evan said he had sent the boots to the bicycle tire mender’s the morning I came away.  It was the third night of my stay, and he would not have known what to make of it if I had not raised some sort of a ghost.