e lifted instead, and such an
ardent look of gratitude poured forth that she was filled with confusion.

For half an hour four uncomfortable people sat in the little gilded cage
of a drawing-room, and everybody wondered why somebody didn't do
something to relieve the situation. Mr. and Mrs. Ranny made heroic
efforts to entertain their unwelcome guest; Harold Phipps moved about the
room with ill-concealed impatience; and Eleanor sat erect, with tightly
clasped hands, as angry with Harold as she was with Quin.

"Mr. Graham," said Mrs. Ranny at length, when Harold had looked at his
watch for the fourth time, "I am afraid we shall have to ask you to
excuse us. You see, this is our wedding anniversary, and we always
celebrate it by a sentimental pilgrimage in search of wild flowers. I am
afraid it's about time we were starting."

Eleanor felt Quin's eyes seek hers confidently, but she refused to meet
them. There was a painful silence; then he spoke up hopefully:

"I know where there are wild flowers to burn: I was at a place yesterday
where you could hardly walk for them; I counted seven different kinds in
a space about as big as this room."

"Where?" demanded Mr. and Mrs. Ranny in one breath.

"Out Anchordale way--I don't know the name of the road. It's an
out-of-the-way sort of place. Never was there myself until yesterday."

"Could you find it again?" Mrs. Ranny asked with an enthusiasm hitherto
reserved for her poodle.

"Sure," said Quin, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back with
the frankest and best-natured of smiles. "I never saw so many cowslips
and buttercups and yellow violets, and these here little arums."

"Arums!" repeated Eleanor. "What do you know about wild flowers?"

"I lived with 'em up in the Maine woods," said Quin. "I don't know their
high-brow names, but I know the kind of places they grow in and where to
look for 'em."

"Let's take him along!" said Mrs. Ranny. "We won't mind being a bit
crowded in the motor, will we?"

Involuntarily all eyes turned toward Harold Phipps.

"Not in the least," he said, flicking an ash from the sleeve of his
uniform with a dexterous little finger, "especially as I am not going to
be with you all the way. These bucolic joys are hardly in my line. I'll
get you to drop me at the Country Club."

It was Eleanor's turn to cast a look of tragic appeal and get no
response. In vain she tried to persuade him to reconsider his decision.
His only concessio