and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged significant glances. Woman-like they sensed something unusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner.
"Going out?" enquired Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe sweetly.
"Probably," was Patricia's laconic reply.
Soup had not been disposed of (it was soup on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; fish on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and neither on Sundays at Galvin House) before Gustave entered with an enormous bouquet of crimson carnations. It might almost be said that the carnations entered propelled by Gustave, as there was very little but Gustave's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screen of flowers. Instinctively everybody looked at Patricia.
"For you, mees, with Colonel Baun's compliments."
Gustave stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him.
"You've forgotten the conservatory, Gustave," laughed Mr. Bolton. It was always easy to identify the facetious from the serious Mr. Bolton; his jokes were always heralded by a laugh.
"Sir?" interrogated the literal-minded Gustave.
"Never mind, Gustave. Mr. Bolton was joking," said Mrs. Craske-Morton.
"Yes, madame." Gustave smiled a mechanical smile: he overflowed with tact.
