Chapter 14

Although Mr. Blair was, as we all were, astonished to see our mythical young lady changed into a real old woman, he did not lose his equanimity, nor did his kindly face show any surprise, but he evidently forgot the part he had intended to play.

“You will pardon me for troubling you, Miss McMillan,” he said, “but this basket of flowers was evidently intended for you, and was sent to my room by mistake.”

Miss McMillan did not look at the flowers, but gazed long at the card with the writing on it, and as she did so one tear and then another stole down the wrinkled face from behind the glasses.

“There is no mistake, is there?” asked Mr. Blair. “You know the writer.”

“There is no mistake—no mistake,” replied Miss McMillan in a low voice, “he is a very dear and kind friend.” Then, as if unable to trust herself further, she took the flowers and hurriedly said, “Thank you,” and left us.

“There,” I said to the lady on my left, “your romance turns out to be nothing after all.”

“No, sir,” she cried with emphasis; “the romance is there, and very much more of a romance than if Miss McMillan was a young and silly girl of twenty.”

Perhaps she was right.