His appearance called forth such a laudatory buzzing of tongues and such a cordial shaking of hands that one might have easily mistaken the meeting for a successful political rally or a religious revival.  The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee fluttered about him, chirping ecstatic expletives, while the Disagreeable Trustee watched her and growled to himself.

“So splendid,” she chirped, “the unanimous indorsement of the board—­at least, practically unanimous.”  And she eyed the widow of the Richest Trustee accusingly.

“The incurable ward and Margaret MacLean have really been a terrible responsibility, haven’t they?  I can’t help feeling it will mean quite a load off our minds.”  It was the Social Trustee who spoke, and she followed it with a little sigh of relief.

The sigh was echoed twice—­thrice—­about the room.  Then the Meanest Trustee barked out: 

“I hope it will mean a load off our purses.  That ward and that nurse have always wanted things, and had them, that they had no business wanting.  I hope we can save a substantial sum now for the endowment fund.”

The Oldest Trustee smiled tolerantly.  “Of course it isn’t as if the cases were not hopeless.  I can see no object, however, in making concessions and sacrifices to keep in the hospital cases that cannot be cured; and, no doubt, we can place them most satisfactorily in state institutions for orphans or deficients.”

At that moment the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee spied the primroses on the President’s desk—­she had been too engrossed in the surgical profession to observe much apart.  “I believe I’m going to decorate you.”  And she dimpled up at the Senior Surgeon, coquettishly.  Selecting one of the blossoms with great care, she drew it through the buttonhole in his lapel.  “See, I’m decorating you with the Order of the Golden Primrose—­for brilliancy.”  Whereupon she dropped her eyes becomingly.

“Good Lord!” muttered the Disagreeable Trustee to the President, his eye focused on the two.  “She’ll fetch him this time.  And she’ll have him so hypnotized with all this chirping and dancing business that he’ll be perfectly helpless in a month, or I miss—­”

The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee looked up just in time to intercept that eye, and she attacked it with a saucy little stare.  “I believe you are both jealous,” she flung over her shoulder.  But the very next moment she was dimpling again.  “I believe I am going to decorate everybody—­including myself.  I’m sure we all deserve it for our loyal support of Science.”  She, likewise, always spelled it with a capital, having acquired the habit from the Senior Surgeon.

She snatched a cluster of primroses from the green Devonshire bowl; and one was fastened securely in the lapel or frill of every trustee, not even omitting the gray wisp of a woman by the door.