"That's all right, Mr. Mortimer," interrupted Aunt Jane. "I like to have beginners. They pay their bills. And I only want refined people who behave themselves. Of course a little impromptu frivolity makes every one feel at home, and if there's one thing I always try to do, it is to make my house homelike."

"I'm sure it is that."

"Yes, sir. A real home, especially for the lonely young girls I have living with me here. Why, I have one young lady staying here now who is under my _special_ protection. The gentleman who sent her to me said he knew of my reputation, and that he wanted me to be a _real mother_ to her."

"I hope I may be admitted into this happy family," ventured Mortimer, smiling.

"I'm so proud of his trust in me," continued Aunt Jane, evidently started on a pet theme, "that I never let that girl out of my sight--except, of course, when she's at the theater. And I have to telephone him every day and tell him what she's doing. But how I run on--here's Lizzie, who will show you some of the rooms. Did you want a big room or a small room?"

"That depends on the price," stammered Mortimer, rising.

Lizzie had handed Mrs. Anderson a telegram, and stood waiting for instructions.

"Lizzie, show Mr. Mortimer the vacant rooms on the third and fourth floors front," directed Aunt Jane, tearing open the dispatch. "Oh, by the way, Mr. Mortimer, do you happen to have a photograph you can let me have?"

"My photograph?" repeated Mortimer, surprised and flattered. "I have some in my trunk."

"If you come with us I'll want to include yours in my collection of famous actors," explained Aunt Jane.

"But I'm not famous--" protested Mortimer.

"Never mind--you will be some day. You see all these photographs of celebrities"--she waved her hand--"all of these people are with me now, except Maude Adams, Ethel Barrymore and one or two others. Somewhere in this house I have a photograph of every actor or actress who ever stayed here. Fifteen years and more I've kept them. Many a famous star of to-day gave me a photograph years ago, when only an unknown lodger in my happy little home."

"I'll sure bring you one," cried the delighted Mortimer. As he started toward the hall, with Lizzie as his guide, Mrs. Anderson called after them:

"One moment, Lizzie," she cried, holding the telegram. "Mr. Lawrence is coming from Boston this evening and wants his old room. Be sure and have it ready."

"Yes, ma'am," responded the ubiquitous Lizzie.

"And just a moment," continued Mrs. Anderson, in a confidential tone, beckoning to the slavey. "Go up to the garret and get me that large picture of Mr. Lawrence we had on the piano last time he was here."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Here, take this one with you," added Aunt Jane, craftily, picking up a photograph of a blond man with curly hair. "It's Jimmy Carlton--he's gone to California and won't be back until spring. Put this one away with the others. And see that Mr. Lawrence's picture is nicely dusted. I want him to feel at home when he comes in and sees it on the piano."

Mortimer, who was busily looking at the photographs, suddenly saw one he recognized.

"Isn't that Flossie Forsythe?" he inquired.

"The very same," answered Mrs. Anderson. "She's staying here, too--she and her chum, Miss Lexington. Lizzie, show Mr. Mortimer the house--and Lizzie," she added confidentially, "recommend the fourth floor front. It ain't no more, but the bath always rents the third easier."

Half a moment later, with Lizzie on the fourth floor, the bell rang again and this time Mrs. Anderson herself was compelled to answer it. A messenger boy with a large box of flowers stepped into the hallway. Mrs.

Anderson took the box and looked at the card.

"For Miss Farnum?" she sniffed. "Humph! This is the third time since Sunday she's had flowers from somewhere. Who sent them, boy?"

The snub-nosed Mercury gazed up at her and winked.

"How d'je t'ink I knows de guy's name?" he retorted.

"Impudent!" replied Aunt Jane.

"An' say, lady, I got a note also for Miss--Miss Farnum."

"Give it to me, then, you young rascal."

"Nixey." The boy shook his head and winked again. "Told me to give it to Miss Farnum 'erself."

"But I can give it to her."

"Maybe my eye's green, too," answered the messenger. "De gent who give me dis said give it only to her. If she ain't in, I got to come back when she is."

"Miss Farnum is not in," declared Aunt Jane, indignantly. "And you're a rude, disrespectful boy, to speak so to your elders."

"Well, say, when will her nibs get back?"

"In about half an hour," retorted Aunt Jane, slamming the door on him and taking the box into the parlor. Once there, she peered curiously at the box. It was only an ordinary florist's box, but a big one, and it evidently contained costly, long-stemmed American Beauties. There was a small note attached to the box, with the name "Martha Farnum" on the envelope.

Mrs. Anderson debated about five seconds whether or not it was her duty to examine the note. Of course she had no right to look, but she concluded that her position as Martha's temporary guardian demanded that she examine carefully anything that would throw light upon the person who was sending so many flowers to her young charge.

"There's a card inside, sure, and perhaps a name," she argued, with easy sophistry. "It's my duty to look. Some young spark is trying to make love to Martha under my very nose."

She nervously tore off the envelope, opened it and took out a card. She read it and threw up her hands in disappointment. The card was blank, except for the written words: "From your unknown admirer."

"h.e.l.lo! Blooms! For me?" cried Flossie Forsythe, resplendent in furs and a large picture-hat, bursting into the room just as Mrs. Anderson replaced the card. "Pinkie, look at the flowers some one sent me," she added, turning to summon the sad-eyed Miss Lexington, who still appeared dejected and deserted as she stood in the doorway, last season's walking-suit hanging unevenly from her highly developed figure and appearing a trifle tight in certain spots.

"I suppose Marky sent them," said Pinkie, dropping upon the sofa in disgust. "I wish some guy would slip me a beef-steak over the footlights some time instead of flowers."

Mrs. Anderson politely but firmly rescued the flowers from Flossie's clutches.

"For Miss Farnum," she said coldly, taking the box to the piano out of harm's way.

"What rot," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Flossie. "I never seen a girl get so many flowers."

Pinkie sighed. "I haven't had an orchid this season," she said sadly.

"Never mind, dear," cried Flossie, sinking onto the sofa by her side.

"Wait until the new show goes on, and we both make hits. You'll be covered with flowers."

"It will take some flowers to cover me," responded Pinkie, surveying her ample girth with regret. "But what gets me, is how Martha Farnum wins out with the b.o.o.bs who send her flowers. Why, she ain't got no style.

And she's only a beginner in the chorus, too."

"But they do say she's made the biggest hit ever known in the Casino since I left last spring," drawled Flossie, carelessly.

"Pity you didn't stay, dear," smiled Pinkie. "But then, of course, you weren't in the chorus."

"I should say not," cried Flossie, indignantly. "I haven't been in any chorus for two years. It's s.e.xtettes or nothing with me hereafter, and you know I don't have to work."