sinterpret my interest in you,
really, you do."

Dorothy laughed. "Now, now," she scolded, "don't say that. Here, I'll
divide with you." She separated the fragrant bunch into its components
of smaller bunches, snipped the purple ribbon in two, and neatly devised
two corsage adornments. "Here," she bubbled, "one for you and one for
me--and don't say such mean things about me any more. If you do, I'll
tell Mother about all your flirtations the minute she gets back--I will,
too!"

"That reminds me, my dear," said Mrs. Mellows, her apple-pink face
becoming suddenly serious, "I don't understand why we haven't had any
news from your mother, really, I don't. She might have sent us just a
wireless or something."

"It _is_ odd." Dorothy's laugh broke off midway in a silvery chuckle.
"But something may have gone wrong with the telegraphic apparatus, you
know. We might get the company, and find out if any other messages have
been received from her."

"I never thought of that," exclaimed Mrs. Mellows. "You are quick
witted, Dorothy, I will say that for you. Suppose you do find out."

Dorothy turned to the telephone and made her inquiry. "There," she said
at length, "I guessed it--no messages at all; they are sure it's out of
order. Well, that does relieve one's mind. It isn't because she's ill,
or anything like that. Now, Aunt Lydia, that's _my_ mail."

"Why, child!" the mature Cupid protested, "_I_ wasn't going to open your
letters. Indeed, I think you are positively insulting to me! Here,
that's from your cousin Euphemia, I know her hand; and that's just a
circular, I'm sure--and Tappe's bill. My dear, you've been perfectly
foolish about hats this winter. This is a handwriting I don't know, but
it's smart stationery--and, dear me, look at all these little cards. I
really don't see how the postman bothers to see that they're all
delivered; they're such little slippery things--more teas--and bridge."

"And how about yours?" questioned Dorothy, amused. "What did you get?"

Aunt Lydia bridled. "Oh, nothing much. Some cards, a bill or two--"

"Bill or coo, you mean," said her niece with a playful clutch at her
chaperon's lap-full of missives. "If that isn't a man's letter, I'll eat
my cap, ribbons and all--and that one, and that one."

Mrs. Mellows rose hastily, gathered her flowing negligee about her and
beat a retreat.

She turned at the door, "You're a rude little girl, and I shan't count
on you to go to Bendel's. If y