“Why didn’t you bring her?  Oh, but I’m afraid you’ve robbed yourself!”

“Oh, no, we haven’t.  Mother says, flowers grow with picking.”

“Come on around front,” Shirley suggested.  “The boys have been putting the awning up.”

“The boys” were three of Mr. Dayre’s fellow artists, who had come up a day or two before, on a visit to the manor.  One of them, at any rate, deserved Shirley’s title.  He came forward now.  “Looks pretty nice, doesn’t it?” he said, with a wave of the hand towards the red and white striped awning, placed at the further edge of the lawn.

Shirley smiled her approval, and introduced him to Pauline, adding that Miss Shaw was the real founder of their club.

“It’s a might jolly sort of club, too,” young Oram said.

“That is exactly what it has turned out to be,” Pauline laughed.  “Are the vases ready, Shirley?”

Shirley brought the tray of empty flower vases out on the veranda, and sent Harry Oram for a bucket of fresh water.  “Harry is to make the salad,” she explained to Pauline, as he came back.  “Before he leaves the manor he will have developed into a fairly useful member of society.”

“You’ve never eaten one of my salads, Miss Shaw,” Harry said.  “When you have, you’ll think all your previous life an empty dream.”

“It’s much more likely her later life will prove a nightmare,—­for a while, at least,” Shirley declared.  “Still, Paul, Harry does make them rather well.  Betsy Todd, I am sorry to say, doesn’t approve of him.  But there are so many persons and things she doesn’t approve of; lawn-parties among the latter.”

Pauline nodded sympathetically; she knew Betsy Todd of old.  Her wonder was, that the Dayres had been able to put up with her so long, and she said so.

“‘Hobson’s choice,’” Shirley answered, with a little shrug.  “She isn’t much like our old Therese at home, is she, Harry?  But nothing would tempt Therese away from her beloved New York.  ’Vairmon!  Nevaire have I heard of zat place!’ she told Harry, when he interviewed her for us.  Senior’s gone to Vergennes—­on business thoughts intent, or I hope they are.  He’s under strict orders not to ‘discover a single bit’ along the way, and to get back as quickly as possible.”

“You see how beautifully she has us all in training?” Harry said to Pauline.

Pauline laughed.  Suddenly she looked up from her flowers with sobered face.  “I wonder,” she said slowly, “if you know what it’s meant to us—­you’re being here this summer, Shirley?  Sometimes things do fit in just right after all.  It’s helped out wonderfully this summer, having you here and the manor open.”

“Pauline has a fairy-story uncle down in New York,” Shirley turned to Harry.  “You’ve heard of him—­Mr. Paul Shaw.”

“Well,—­rather!  I’ve met him, once or twice—­he didn’t strike me as much of a believer in fairy tales.”