'Lady Ventnor? Mrs. Bubb? Lord Rye? Dear, yes. Why, they like one.'
'But does one personally know them?' our young lady went on, since that was the way to speak. 'I mean socially, don't you know?—as you know me.'
'They're not so nice as you!' Mrs. Jordan charmingly cried. 'But I shall see more and more of them."
Ah, this was the old story. 'But how soon?'
'Why, almost any day. Of course,' Mrs. Jordan honestly added, 'they're nearly always out.'
'Then why do they want flowers all over?'
'Oh, that doesn't make any difference.' Mrs. Jordan was not philosophic; she was only evidently determined it shouldn't make any. 'They're awfully interested in my ideas, and it 's inevitable they should meet me over them.'
Her interlocutress was sturdy enough. 'What do you call your ideas?'
Mrs. Jordan's reply was fine. 'If you were to see me some day with a thousand tulips, you'd soon discover.'
