b on Friday night, she found a box of
flowers waiting for her in the dressing-room. It was the second box she
had received that day. The first bore the conspicuous label, "Wear-Well
Shoes," and contained a bunch of wild evening primroses wrapped in wet
moss. With this more sophisticated floral offering was a sealed note
which she opened eagerly:

_Mademoiselle Beaux Yeux_--[she read]:

Save all the dances after the intermission for me. I will reach L. at
nine-thirty, get out to the club for a couple of hours with you, and
catch the midnight express back to Chicago. Pin my blossoms close to
your heart, and bid it heed what they whisper.

H. P.

Eleanor read the note twice, conscious of the fact that a dozen envious
eyes were watching her. She considered this quite the most romantic thing
that had happened to her. For a man like Mr. Phipps to travel sixteen
hours out of the twenty-four just to dance with her was a triumph indeed.
It made her think of her old friend Joseph, in the Bret Harte poem, who

Swam the Elk's creek and all that,
Just to dance with old Folingsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

Not that Eleanor felt in the least humble. She had never felt so proud in
her life as she smiled a little superior smile and slipped the note in
her bosom.

"Not orchids!" exclaimed Kitty Mason, poking an inquisitive finger under
the waxed paper.

"Why not?" Eleanor asked nonchalantly. "They are my favorite flowers."

"But I thought the orchid king was in Chicago?"

"He is--that is, he was. He's probably on the train now. I have just had
a note saying he was running down for the dance and would go back
to-night."

The news had the desired effect. Six noses, which were being vigorously
powdered, were neglected while their owners burst forth in a chorus of
exclamations sufficiently charged with envious admiration to satisfy the
most rapacious debutante.

"I should think you'd be perfectly paralyzed trying to think of things to
talk to him about," said little Bessie Meed, who had not yet put her hair
up. "Older men scare me stiff."

"They don't me," declared Lou Pierce; "they make me tired. Sitting out
dances, and holding hands, and talking high-brow. When I come to a dance
I want to dance. Give me Johnnie Rawlings or Pink Bailey and a good old
jazz."

Eleanor pinned on her orchids and moved away. The girls seemed incredibly
young and noisy and crass. Less than six mo