In the morning-room of a large, old-fashioned country-house, situated a
few miles outside the city of New Orleans, sat a young man arranging a
bowl of roses. Beside him stood a pretty girl, in riding costume, whose
face bore a trace of petulance.

"Do make haste, Cousin Ridge, and finish with those stupid flowers. You
have wasted half an hour of this glorious morning over them already!" she
exclaimed.

"Wasted?" rejoined Ridge Norris, inquiringly, and looking up with a
smile. "I thought you were too fond of flowers to speak of time spent in
showing them off to best advantage as 'wasted.'"

"Yes, of course I'm fond of them," answered Spence Cuthbert, who was from
Kentucky on a Mardi Gras visit to Dulce Norris, her school-chum and
cousin by several removes, "but not fond enough to break an engagement on
account of them."

"An engagement?"

"Certainly. You promised to go riding with me this morning."

"And so I will in a minute, when I have finished with these roses."

"But I want you to come this instant."

"And leave a duty unperformed?" inquired Ridge, teasingly.

"Yes; now."