There had been a comical gleam in her brown eyes which he now knew was born of contempt for his taste with regard to flowers.

Red peonies were not the rarest of blossoms--Melinda had taught him that when he suggested having them in his conservatory; but surely no one could object to these waxen, feathery pinks, whose odor was so delicious.

Miss Bigelow liked them, else she had never sent them to him.

And he kept the bouquet in his hand, admiring its arrangement, inhaling the sweet perfume of the delicate pinks and heliotrope, and speculating upon the kind of person Miss Bigelow must be to have thought so much of him.

He could account for Miss Owens' gift--the hot-house blossoms, which had not moved him one-half so much as did this bunch of pinks.