He then escorted her to a florist’s and himself insisted upon pinning upon the blue serge coat a gorgeous corsage knot of deep-hued red roses and mignonette, which added to her quiet costume the one brilliant note that was needed to bring out her beauty as his artistic young eye approved.

She protested in vain.  “I don’t want to wear flowers—­to-night, my dear boy.”

“Why not?  There’s nothing conspicuous about that, these days.  More conspicuous not to, you might say.  You often do it yourself.”

“I know, but—­to-night!”

“He won’t know what you have on.  He’s slightly delirious at this very minute, I have no doubt at all.  When he sees you he’ll go off his head.  Oh, nobody’ll know it to look at him; you needn’t be afraid of that.”

“Please stop talking about it,” commanded his sister.  But she did not refuse to wear the red roses.  No sane young woman could after having caught a glimpse of herself in the florist’s mirror.  Even an indifferent shopgirl stared with interest after the pair as they left the place, wondering if, after all, flowers weren’t more effective on the quiet swells than on those of the dashing attire.

“We’re to meet him on the train, not in the station,” Julius observed, as he hurried his sister across the great concourse.  “He has to make rather a close connection.  So we’ll be in our seats when he arrives.  Or, better yet, we’ll get back on the observation platform and see him when he comes out the gates.  That’ll give you the advantage of the first look!”

Their car, it turned out, was the end one and their seats at the rear end, as Julius had tried to arrange but had not been sure of accomplishing.  Dorothy followed him through the car and out upon the platform.  Here the two watched the crowds hurrying through the gates toward their own and other trains, while the minutes passed.  Julius, watch in hand, began to show signs of anxiety.

“He’d better be showing up soon,” he announced as the stream of oncoming passengers began to thin.  “It’s getting pretty close to—­There he is though!  Good work.  Come on, old fellow, don’t be so leisurely!  By George, that’s not Kirke after all!  Those shoulders—­I thought it certainly was.  But he’ll come—­oh, he’ll come all right or break a leg trying!”

But he did not come.  The last belated traveller dashed through the gates, the last signal was given, the train began very slowly to move.

“He’s missed the connection,” said Julius solemnly.  “But we’ll hear from him at the first stop; certainly we’ll hear from him.  We’ll go inside the car and be prepared to answer up.”

But neither at the first stop nor the second did the porter appear with a message for Mr. Broughton or for Miss Broughton, or for anybody whomsoever.