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She put her hand over his lips. “Hush! I hate old women who egg on courtships.”
When Oswald had finished his cigar we were taken out for a walk. This was primarily for the good of her “figger,” Myra said, and incidentally we were to look for a green bush to send to Madame Modjeska. “She’s spending the holidays in town, and it will be dismal at her hotel.”
At the florist’s we found, among all the little trees and potted plants, a glistening holly-tree, full of red berries and pointed like a spire, easily the queen of its companions. “That is naturally hers,” said Mrs. Myra.
Her husband shrugged. “It’s naturally the most extravagant.”
Mrs. Myra threw up her head. “Don’t be petty, Oswald. It’s not a woollen petticoat or warm mittens that Madame is needing.” She gave careful instructions to the florist’s man, who was to take the tree to the Savoy; he was to carry with it a box of cakes, “of my baking,” she said
