“Which two would you choose, if you could have anybody you wanted, Cap?” ventured Queenie.
“Lil, of course, first of all!” she answered emphatically.
“Lilies of the valley from her!” cried Queenie, delighted at the coincidence of the donor’s name with the flowers she had just opened. “Why, she sends you flowers every other day, doesn’t she?”
“I guess she has—even when I was too ill to realize it. Her roses are still fresh.”
Marjorie turned to her mail, and read three lively letters from college friends. Then she could restrain her curiosity no longer concerning the other box of flowers.
“It’s a man’s card,” observed Queenie, as she handed Marjorie the tiny envelope accompanying a huge bunch of snapdragon. “I can tell by the shape.”
Marjorie’s fingers trembled as she pulled open the flap; but upon reading the name a sharp look of disappointment spread over her countenance.
“Walter Richards,” she repeated mechanically. “How very nice.”
Queenie raised her eyes quickly, recalling her own jealousy on a former occasion when she had thought the scout master infatuated with her pretty captain. But there could be no doubt now that if the young man did entertain any such hopes, they would not be encouraged. Marjorie could not conceal her disappointment.
“Now read the rest of your letters,” Queenie advised her tenderly.
“They’re all from college girls,” she said, “except one—from Ethel Todd, one of our old scouts. I recognize their handwriting.”
Queenie busied herself with the flowers, changing the water in the old ones, filling other vases for the new bouquets that had just arrived. When she had finished, Marjorie tossed her letters aside and settled back in her pillows.
“Queenie, here’s one for you—I found it under the quilt,” she remarked. “Looks like a man’s handwriting!”
The girl blushed and took the letter with feigned indifference.
“It’s from Mr. Richards,” she said calmly. “He often sends me lists of books—and things like that.”
“Oh, I see!” nodded the other girl, restraining a smile.
Queenie opened the letter deliberately, but as she started to read it, a look of happiness crept over her face.
“He wants me to meet him in town tomorrow,” she announced, as she read on, “and take lunch with him—and—and——Miss Wilkinson, may I go?”