He was in excellent spirits, quite undisturbed by the unexpected
proximity of Rosalie Dysart or the possible renewal of their hitherto
slightly hazardous friendship. He laid his cigarette aside for the
express purpose of whistling while undressing.

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved, and sartorially freshened, he
selected a blue corn-flower from the rural bouquet on his dresser, drew
it through his buttonhole, gave a last alluring twist to his tie,
surveyed himself in the mirror, whistled a few bars, was perfectly
satisfied with himself, then, unlocking the door, strolled out into the
corridor. Having no memory for direction, he took the wrong turn.

A distractingly pretty maid laid aside her sewing and rose from her
chair to set him right; he bestowed upon her his most courtly thanks.
She was unusually pretty, so he thanked her again, and she dimpled, one
hand fingering her apron's edge.

"My child," said he gravely, "are you by any fortunate chance as good as
you are ornamental?"

She replied that she thought she was.

"In that case," he said, "this is one of those rare occasions in a
thankless world where goodness is amply and instantly rewarded."

She made a perfunctory resistance, but looked after him, smiling, as he
sauntered off down the hallway, rearranging the blue corn-flower in his
button-hole. At the turn by the window, where potted posies stood, he
encountered Rosalie Dysart in canoe costume--sleeves rolled up, hair