Two days before Christmas Delight came out. There was an afternoon

reception at the rectory, and the plain old house blossomed with the

debutante's bouquets and baskets of flowers.

For weeks before the house had been getting ready. The rector,

looking about for his accustomed chair, had been told it was at the

upholsterer's, or had found his beloved and ragged old books relegated

to dark corners of the bookcases. There were always stepladders on the

landings, and paper-hangers waiting until a man got out of bed in the

morning. And once he put his ecclesiastical heel in a pail of varnish,

and slid down an entire staircase, to the great imperilment of his

kindly old soul.

But he had consented without demur to the coming-out party, and he had

taken, during all the morning of the great day, a most mundane interest

in the boxes of flowers that came in every few minutes. He stood inside

a window, under pretense of having no place to sit down, and called out

regularly, "Six more coming, mother! And a boy with three ringing across the

street. I think he's made a mistake. Yes, he has. He's coming over!"

When all the stands and tables were overflowing, the bouquets were hung

to the curtains in the windows. And Delight, taking a last survey, from

the doorway, expressed her satisfaction.

"It's heavenly," she said. "Imagine all those flowers for me. It

looks"--she squinted up her eyes critically--"it looks precisely like a

highly successful funeral."

But a part of her satisfaction was pure pose, for the benefit of

that kindly pair who loved her so. Alone in her room, dressed to go

down-stairs, Delight drew a long breath and picked up her flowers which

Clayton Spencer had sent. It had been his kindly custom for years to

send to each little debutante, as she made her bow, a great armful of

white lilacs and trailing tiny white rosebuds.

"Fifty dollars, probably," Delight reflected. "And the Belgians needing

flannels. It's dreadful."

Her resentment against Graham was dying. After all, he was only a

child in Toots Hayden's hands. And she made one of those curious

"He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not" arrangements in her own mind. If Graham

came that afternoon, she would take it as a sign that there was still

some good in him, and she would try to save him from himself. She had

been rather nasty to him. If he did not come-A great many came, mostly women, with a sprinkling of men. The rector,

who loved people, was in his element. He was proud of Delight, proud

of his home; he had never ceased being proud of his wife. He knew who

exactly had sent each basket of flowers, each hanging bunch. "Your

exquisite orchids," he would say; or, "that perfectly charming basket.

It is there, just beside Mrs. Haverford."




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