Judy had neither seen nor heard from Major Crosby since the day they had tea together at Madame Claire's. She had written him a note to thank him for his flowers, the sending of which had both pleased and touched her. Knowing his poverty and his reserve, she read into his gift, more, perhaps, than he had intended she should. Chip looked upon the sending of flowers as the natural tribute to be paid to any charming woman, and imagined in his simplicity, that she must receive very many such gifts. She guessed this, but at the same time she also guessed that never before in his life, probably, had he sent flowers to a woman. Pink roses, too. . . .
She wondered about him a good deal—wondered what he did with himself evenings, and where and how he spent his Sundays. Like Madame Claire, she felt that Chip was a man not marked for success, but at least she was determined that, whatever happened, his life should be less empty and colorless because of that accident in the fog.
