After the bustle of departure had subsided, the steward came forward
bringing a moss-lined basket, filled with choice hothouse flowers, saying:
"A gentleman left this in my care, to be delivered to Miss Dexie Sherwood.
I believe it belongs to one of you ladies."
"Oh, Dexie, they can't _all_ be for you," said Gussie, eagerly, as she
reached out her hand and took the basket from the steward's hands.
"Here is a note directed to me; wait till I see who it is from," and Dexie
picked a tiny roll of paper from among the blossoms. One hasty glance over
the written lines, and Dexie curled her lip in a disdainful smile.
"You may have everyone of them, Gussie, for I don't want them," and she
drew herself away, as if the very touch of the basket were odious to her,
at which Gussie looked up in surprise.
"Hugh McNeil sent them, so you are welcome to everyone of them," she said
in a low voice, as the steward withdrew. "He is very particular to state
that they are for me alone," and her lip curled. "I wish they had been
brought to me while he was by, I would have tossed them overboard before
his eyes! Thank fortune, I have seen the last of him!"
"You will live to be sorry for your treatment of Hugh McNeil, mark my
words! He would not have found me so hard to please," and Gussie placed the
flowers tenderly beside her.
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