The Inn had been a success from the very first day when a car stopped and delivered a load of people who ate their simple but well-cooked luncheon hungrily and liked it so well that they ordered dinner for the following Sunday and promised to send other parties.

“What I like best about your food, if you’ll allow me to say so,” the host of the machine-load said to Miss Foster, “is that your sandwiches are delicate and at the same time there are more than two bites to them.  They are full-grown sandwiches, man’s size.”

“My brother calls them ‘lady sandwiches’ though,” laughed Miss Foster.  “He says any sandwich with the crust cut off is unworthy a man’s attention.”

“Tell him for me that he’s mistaken.  No crust on mine, but a whole slice of bread to make up for the loss,” and he paid his bill enthusiastically and packed away into his thermos box a goodly pile of the much-to-be-enjoyed sandwiches.

People for every meal of the day began to appear at the Motor Inn, for it was surprising how many parties made a before-breakfast start to avoid the heat of the day on a long trip, and turned up at the Inn about eight or nine o’clock demanding coffee and an omelette.  Then one or two Rosemont people came to ask if friends of theirs might be accommodated with rooms and board for a week or two, and in this way the old house by the road grew rapidly to be more like the inn its sign called it than the tea room it was intended to be.  Servants were added, another veranda was built on, and it looked as if Miss Foster would not teach dancing when winter came again but would have to devote herself to the management of the village hotel which the town had always needed.

It was while the members of the U.S.C. were eating ices and cakes there late one afternoon when they had walked to the station with the departing Watkinses that the Ethels had one of the ideas that so often struck them at almost the same moment.  It came as they watched a motor party go off, supplying themselves with a box of small cakes for the children after trying to buy from Miss Foster the jar of wild iris that stood in state on the table in the hall.  It was not fresh enough to travel they had decided when their hostess had offered to give it to them and they all had examined the purple heads that showed themselves to be past their prime when they were brought out into the light from the semi-darkness of the hall.

“Couldn’t we—?” murmured Ethel Blue with uplifted eye-brows, glancing at Ethel Brown.

“Let’s ask her if we may?” replied Ethel Brown, and without any more discussion than this they laid before Miss Foster the plan that had popped into their minds ready made.  Ethel Brown was the spokeswoman.

“Would you mind if we had a flower counter here in your hall?” she asked.  “We need to make some money for our women at Rose House.”

“A flower counter?  Upon my word, children, you take my breath away!” responded Miss Foster.