you, Aunt Lydia?—­Oh, oh—­what a horrid word!—­unsay it at once!  All right, you’re forgiven.  I’m busy all day—­all, all day—­yes, and this evening.  No, orchids won’t go with my gown to-night—­don’t be silly—­of course, gardenias go with everything, but—­now, what nonsense!—­I’m going to hang up—­Indeed, I will.  Good-b—­what?  Now, listen to me—­”

A tap at the door, and Aunt Lydia, hypnotized as she was by the telephone conversation, had presence of mind enough to open the door and receive a square box tied with purple ribbon.  She dexterously untied the loose bow knot, and withdrew from its tissue wrappings, a fragrant bouquet of violets.  An envelope enclosing a card fell to the floor.  With suppleness hardly to be expected from one of her years, she stooped to pick it up, and in a twinkling had the donor’s name before her.

Dorothy hung up the receiver and turned.  “So you know who sent the flowers, and who was on the ’phone,” she laughed.  “Tante, you should have been a detective—­you really should.”

“How can you!” almost wept Mrs. Mellows.  “I only opened it to save you the trouble.  Of course, I knew all along that it was Teddy Mahr—­I guessed—­why not?  Really, Dorothy, you misinterpret my interest in you, really, you do.”

Dorothy laughed.  “Now, now,” she scolded, “don’t say that.  Here, I’ll divide with you.”  She separated the fragrant bunch into its components of smaller bunches, snipped the purple ribbon in two, and neatly devised two corsage adornments.  “Here,” she bubbled, “one for you and one for me—­and don’t say such mean things about me any more.  If you do, I’ll tell Mother about all your flirtations the minute she gets back—­I will, too!”

“That reminds me, my dear,” said Mrs. Mellows, her apple-pink face becoming suddenly serious, “I don’t understand why we haven’t had any news from your mother, really, I don’t.  She might have sent us just a wireless or something.”

“It is odd.”  Dorothy’s laugh broke off midway in a silvery chuckle.  “But something may have gone wrong with the telegraphic apparatus, you know.  We might get the company, and find out if any other messages have been received from her.”

“I never thought of that,” exclaimed Mrs. Mellows.  “You are quick witted, Dorothy, I will say that for you.  Suppose you do find out.”

Dorothy turned to the telephone and made her inquiry.  “There,” she said at length, “I guessed it—­no messages at all; they are sure it’s out of order.  Well, that does relieve one’s mind.  It isn’t because she’s ill, or anything like that.  Now, Aunt Lydia, that’s my mail.”

“Why, child!” the mature Cupid protested, “I wasn’t going to open your letters.  Indeed, I think you are positively insulting to me!  Here, that’s from your cousin Euphemia, I know her hand; and that’s just a circular, I’m sure—­and Tappe’s bill.  My dear, you’ve been perfectly foolish about hats this winter.  This is a handwriting I don’t know, but it’s smart stationery—­and, dear me, look at all these little cards.  I really don’t see how the postman bothers to see that they’re all delivered; they’re such little slippery things—­more teas—­and bridge.”