Apron-Strings | Page 2

his shirt-sleeves, he
snatched the pipe from his mouth, seized upon the smilax basket, and
sidled swiftly through the door leading to the Close.
"Goo--good-morning, Mrs. Milo," stammered the florist, putting his
cigar behind his back with one large motion that included a bow.
"Good-afternoon. I've just brought the festoons for the
wedding-bower." Once more he jerked his head in the direction of the
bay-window, and edged his way toward it a step or two, his fluttering
eyelids belieing the smile that divided his beard.
Mrs. Milo, her background the heavy oak door that led to the library,
made a charming figure as she looked down the room at him. She was a
slender, active woman, who carried her seventy years with grace. Her
hair was a silvery white, and so abundant that it often gave rise to
justified doubt; now it was dressed with elaborate care. Her eyes were a
bright--almost a metallic--blue. Despite her age, her face was silkily
smooth, and as fair as a girl's, having none of those sallow spots which

so frequently mar the complexions of the old. Her cheeks showed a
faint color. Her nose was perhaps too thin, but it was straight and finely
cut. Her mouth was small, pretty, and curved by an almost constant
smile. Her hands were slender, soft, and young. They were not given to
quick movements. Now they hung touching the blue-gray of her
morning-dress, which, with ruffles of lace at collar and wrists, had the
fresh smartness of a uniform.
"You are smoking?" she inquired. That habitual smile was on her lips,
but her eyes were cold.
"Just--just a dry smoke,"--with a note of injured innocence.
"Your cigar is in your mouth," she persisted, "and yet you're not
smoking."
At that, the florist took a forward step. "And my teeth are in my
mouth," he answered boldly, "but I'm not eating."
Another woman might have shrunk from the impudence of his retort, or
replied angrily. Mrs. Milo only advanced, with slow elegance, prepared
again to put him on the defensive. "Why do I find you in this room?"
she demanded.
"I'm just passing through--to the lawn."
"Do not pass through again."
"Well, I'd like to know about that," returned the florist, argumentatively.
"When I mentioned passing through the Church, why, the Rector, he
says to me----"
Mrs. Milo lifted a white hand to check him. "Never mind what Mr.
Farvel said," she admonished sharply; then, with quick gentleness,
"You know that he has lived here only little more than a year."
"Oh, I know."
"And I have lived here fifteen years."

"True," assented the florist. "But I was talking with Miss Susan about
passing through the Church, and Miss Susan----"
The blue eyes flashed. And once more Mrs. Milo advanced. "Never
mind what my daughter told you," she commanded, but without raising
her voice. "I am compelled to make this Rectory my home because
Miss Milo does the secretarial work of the parish. And what kind of a
home should I have if I allowed the place to be in continual disorder?"
There was a pause, the two facing each other. Then the look of the
florist fell. "I'll go in by way of the Church, madam," he announced.
And turned away with a stiff bow.
"One moment." The order was curt; but as he brought up, and turned
about once more, Mrs. Milo spoke almost confidentially. "As you very
well know," she reminded, her face slightly averted, "there is a third
entrance to the Close."
The florist saw his opportunity. "Oh, yes," he declared; "--the little
white door where the ladies come of a night to leave their orphans."
That brought Mrs. Milo about. And the color deepened in her cheeks. It
was the red, not only of anger, but of modesty. "The women who desert
their infants in that basket," she replied (again that sorrowful
intonation), "are not ladies."
The florist was highly pleased with results. "That may be so," he went
on, with renewed boldness; "but for my ladders, and my plants, the
little white door is too small, and so----" He stopped short. His jaw
dropped. His eyes widened, and fixed themselves in undisguised
admiration upon a young woman who had entered the room behind Mrs.
Milo--a lankish, but graceful young woman, radiant in a gown of
shimmering satin, her fair hair haloed by carefully carried lengths of
misty tulle. "And so," resumed the florist, absent-mindedly, "and
so--and so----"
Mrs. Milo moved across the carpet to a sofa, adjusted a velvet cushion,
and seated herself. "Go and do your work," she said sharply. "It must

be finished this afternoon. And remember: I don't want to see you in
this room again."
"Very well, madam." With a smile and a bow, neither of which was
intended for