It is an indisputable law of the eternal feminine for all women to flaunt a conquest in the face of the man who had declined their affection.  Kate was not in love with her cousin David, but she was devoutly thankful to Providence that there was a Lennox Sanderson to flaunt before him in the capacity of tame cat, and prove that he “was not the only man in the world,” as she put it to herself.

Therefore when Lennox Sanderson handed her a magnificent bunch of Jacqueminot roses that he had brought her from Boston, Kate was not at all backward in rewarding Sanderson with her graciousness.

“How beautiful they are, Mr. Sanderson; it was so good of you.”

“You make me very happy by taking them,” he answered with a wealth of meaning.

Anna, who had gone to the storeroom for some apples, after her reconciliation with Mrs. Bartlett, returned to find Sanderson talking earnestly to Kate by the window.  Kate held up the roses for Anna to smell.  “Aren’t they lovely, Anna?  There is nothing like roses for taking the edge off a snowstorm.”

Anna was forced to go through the farce of admiring them, while Sanderson looked on with nicely concealed amusement.

“Well, what do you think of them, Anna?” said Kate, disappointed that she made no comment.

“The best thing about roses, speaking generally, Miss Kate, is that they fade quickly and do not embarrass one by outliving the little affairs in which they have played a part.”  She returned Sanderson’s languid glance in a way that made him quail.

“That is quite true,” said Kate, being in the humor for a little cynicism.  “What a pity that love letters can’t be constructed on the same principle.”

Sanderson did not feel particularly at ease while these two young women served and returned cynicism; he was accordingly much relieved when Mrs. Bartlett and Anna both left the room, intent on the solemn ceremony of opening a new supply of preserved peaches.

“Kate, did you mean what you just said to that girl?” Sanderson asked when they were alone.

“What did I say?  Oh, yes, about the love letters.  Well, what difference does it make whether I meant it or not?”

“It makes all the difference in the world to me, Kate.”  He read refusal in the big blue eyes, and he made haste to plead his cause before she could say anything.

“Don’t answer yet, Kate; don’t give me my life-sentence,” he said playfully, taking her hand.  “Think it over; take as long as you like.  Hope with you is better than certainty with any other woman.”

[Illustration:  Lillian Gish and Burr McIntosh.]

Professor Sterling, who had been to a neighboring town on business for the past two or three days, walked into the middle of this little tableau in time to hear the last sentence.  Kate and Sanderson had failed to hear him, partly because he had neglected to remove his overshoes, and partly because they were deeply engrossed with each other.