Sylvia glanced at the note, saying, "I will
wear them," to the man, handed the card to Miss Lavinia, her face
flushing with pleasure, while No. 2 extracted a modest bunch of
California violets from the paper, handed them to his young mistress, and
retired with the box on his tray.
The name on the card was Horace Bradford, the pencilled address
University Club, on the reverse were the words, "May I give myself the
pleasure of calling to-morrow night? These February violets are in
remembrance of a May ducking. Am in town for two days only on college
business."
"The day that he rowed us on the Avon and reached too far up the bank to
pick you wild violets and the boat shot ahead and he fell into the
water," laughed Miss Lavinia, as pleased as Sylvia at the recollection.
"But I am going to you to-morrow evening," said Sylvia, ruefully at
thought of missing a friend, but quite heart-free, as Miss Lavinia saw.
"Let me take the card, and I will ask him to dinner also," said the
dear, comfortable, prim soul, who was still bubbling over with love of
youth, "and Barbara shall ask her adopted uncle Cortright to keep the
number even."
Time, it seems, had flown rapidly. She had barely slipped the card in
her case when the door opened and No. 3 approached solemnly and
whispered, "Mrs. Latham requests, Miss, as how you will come and pour
tea, likewise bringing the ladies, if _still here_!" How those words
_still here_ smote the silence.
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