Sharlee did not have to ask what he would do with such an offer.  She recognized at sight the opportunity for service he had long sought; and she so sincerely rejoiced and triumphed in it for him that his heart grew very tender toward her, and he told her all his plans; how he meant to make of Blaines College a great enlightened modern institution which should turn out a growing army of brave young men for the upbuilding of the city and the state.

“They elect me the first of June.  Of course I am supposed to know nothing about it yet, and you must keep it as a great secret if you please.  I give up my business in April.  The next month goes to my plans, arranging and laying out a great advertising campaign for the September opening.  Early in June I shall sail for Europe, nominally for a little rest, but really to study the school systems of the old world.  The middle of August will find me at my new desk, oh, so full of enthusiasms and high hopes!”

“It’s splendid....  Oh, how fine!” paeaned she.

Upon the damask wrapping of Sharlee’s chair lay a great armful of red, red roses, the gift of prodigal young Beverley Byrd, and far too large to carry.  She lifted them up; scented their fragrance; selected and broke a perfect flower from its long stem; and held it out with a look.

“The Assistant Secretary of the State Department of Charities presents her humble duty to President West.”

“Ah!  Then the president commands his minion to place it tenderly in his buttonhole.”

“Look at the sea of faces ... lorgnettes, too.  The minion dassen’t.”

“Oh, that we two were Maying!”

“You misread our announcement,” said Beverley Byrd, romping up.  “No opening for young men here, Gardy!  Butt out.”

West left her, his well-shaped head in something of a whirl.  In another minute he was off with Miss Avery upon a gallant two-step.

Fetzy’s played on; the dancers floated or hopped according to their nature; and presently a waltz faded out and in a breath converted itself into the march for supper, the same air always for I don’t know how many years.

Miss Avery rose slowly from her seat, a handsome siren shaped, drilled, fitted, polished from her birth for nothing else than the beguiling of lordly man.  From the heart of her beautiful bouquet she plucked a spray of perfect lily-of-the-valley, and, eyes upon her own flowers, held it out to West.

“They are beautiful,” she said in her languorous voice.  “I hadn’t thanked you for them, had I?  Wear this for me, will you not?” She looked up and her long eyes fell—­we need not assume for the first time—­upon the flower in his lapel.  “I beg your pardon,” she said, with the slightest change of expression and voice.  “I see that you are already provided.  Shall we not go up?”

Laughing, he plucked a red, red rose from his buttonhole and jammed it carelessly in his pocket.