He was interrupted by another rap on the door.

“Hallo!” he cried.  “Come in.”

It was Mitchell with several dozen carnations, the most brilliant yet prized—­or priced.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Mary.

“For you, Miss Watkins,” cried the newcomer, gracefully offering his homage, “with the assurance of my sincere regret that I came on the scene too late to have been making a scene with you fifty years ago.”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, rapturously.  But never mind,—­Granite, get a tin basin or suthin’ for these flowers.”

“Where’s Burnett?” Jack asked the newcomer,—­“isn’t he dressed?  It’s getting late.”

“He’s all right,” said Mitchell; “he and Clover are—­here they are!”

The two came in together at that second.  Clover’s mustache just showed over the top of the largest bunch of violets ever constructed, and Burnett bore with assiduous care a bouquet of orchids tied with a Roman sash.

Aunt Mary leaned back and shut her eyes.  If it hadn’t been for her smile, they might possibly have feared for her life.

But she was only momentarily stunned by surpassing ecstasy.

“You’d better put some water in the bath-tub, Granite,” she said, recovering, “nothing else will be big enough.”

The four young men drew up chairs and rivalled her smiles with theirs.

“I d’n know how I ever can thank you,” said the old lady warmly.  “I’ve always had such a poor opinion o’ life in cities, too!”

“Life in cities, my dear Miss Watkins,” screamed Mitchell, “is always pictured as very black, but it’s only owing to the soft coal—­not to the people who burn it.”

Aunt Mary smiled again.

“I guess the bath-tub will be big enough to keep ’em fresh,” she said simply, and Mitchell gave up and dried his forehead with his handkerchief.

They dined at home upon this occasion and afterwards took two carriages for the theater.  Aunt Mary, Jack, Clover, the American Beauties and the violets went in the first, and what remained of the party and the floral decorations followed in the second.

“I mean to smoke,” said that part of the second load which habitually answered to the name of Mitchell.  “There is nothing so soothing when you have thorns in your legs as a cigarette in your mouth.”

“Too—­too;” laughed his companion.  “Jimmy! but our aunt is game, isn’t she?”

“To my order of thinking,” said Mitchell thoughtfully scratching a match, “Aunt Mary has been hung up in cold storage just long enough to have acquired the exactly proper gamey flavor.  It cannot be denied that to worn, worldly, jaded mortals like you and me, the sight of fresh, ever bubbling, youthful enthusiasm like hers is as thrilling and trilling and rilling as—­as—­as—­” he paused to light his cigarette.

[Image:  Illustration 4]

Aunt Mary and Her Escorts.