appeared in the entrance to the Oak Room and lisped the
name:

"Mith Helen Burthon."

He bore in his arms a bouquet of magnificent orchids. Every eye in the
room focussed upon the tiny flower bearer, among them the wrathful
pair of Mrs. Elvira Burton.

"Mith Helen Burthon."

The rage of the older woman had somewhat cooled. She managed to
nod her head haughtily to the boy. He came forward briskly with
his precious burden of blooms and laid them on the table, then
right-about-faced with military precision and marched away.

Now it was Helen Burton's turn to blush and her agitation was as
pretty to see as anything those who continued to stare in her
direction had ever witnessed. Her dimples were positive hollows from
which her blushes seemed to fountain. She did not reach for the
bouquet, though, because her hand trembled so and there was actual
fear in her eyes as she shrank back in her seat and regarded her
aunt.

Mrs. Burton was not loath to seize upon any leverage that might
give her sway over her rebellious niece. With a smile that was
unequivocally malicious she slowly raised the bunch of orchids and
turned them over. The bouquet was tied with a delicate mauve satin
ribbon that perfectly matched the gown worn by her niece.

Mrs. Burton looked at the ribbon and then at Helen's dress. There was
accusation in the glance. Her eyes studied the orchids. They were of a
peculiar rich golden brown, matching the splendor of Miss Burton's
hair. There was conviction in the second glance. She turned the
bouquet over several times, looking for a card.

There was none.

Now, here was a mystery! Could Miss Helen explain? Mrs. Burton inhaled
a deep breath, then said with exaggerated sweetness:

"Helen, dear, who could have sent you these beautiful flowers? They
are positively superb. He must certainly be an artist."

Great as was her first panic, the young girl quickly rallied to her
own defense. She had only waited to be sure there was no card, no
incriminating mark of identification. She leaned forward on her
elbows, sighed rapturously and exclaimed:

"Aren't they exquisite, Aunt El!"

"I asked you, Helen dear, who could have sent them?" There was
something distinctly feline in the purring tones as the question was
repeated.

"Why, isn't there any card, Aunt El?" fenced the girl.

"Come, come, my dear, why keep me in suspense? You can see there is no
card. Can it be one of the young men we met at the Grangers