“It’s the dress, dear. Fine feathers.”
“’Tisn’t. The last evening you flamed out into beauty you wore your old blue flannel shirtwaist that Mrs. Lynde made you. If Roy hadn’t already lost head and heart about you he certainly would tonight. But I don’t like orchids on you, Anne. No; it isn’t jealousy. Orchids don’t seem to belong to you. They’re too exotic—too tropical—too insolent. Don’t put them in your hair, anyway.”
“Well, I won’t. I admit I’m not fond of orchids myself. I don’t think they’re related to me. Roy doesn’t often send them—he knows I like flowers I can live with. Orchids are only things you can visit with.”
“Jonas sent me some dear pink rosebuds for the evening—but—he isn’t coming himself. He said he had to lead a prayer-meeting in the slums! I don’t believe he wanted to come. Anne, I’m horribly afraid Jonas doesn’t really care anything about me. And I’m trying to decide whether I’ll pine away and die, or go on and get my B.A. and be sensible and useful.”
“You couldn’t possibly be sensible and useful, Phil, so you’d better pine away and die,” said Anne cruelly.
“Heartless Anne!”
“Silly Phil! You know quite well that Jonas loves you.”
“But—he won’t tell me so. And I can’t make him. He looks it, I’ll admit. But speak-to-me-only-with-thine-eyes isn’t a really reliable reason for embroidering doilies and hemstitching table-cloths. I
