"I am quite well, Lauretta," I replied.
"Then something has annoyed you," she said.
No, I answered, nothing had annoyed me.
"But there is something," she said.
"Yes," I said, "there is something."
"Tell me," she said.
We were standing by a rosebush, and I plucked one absently, and absently plucked the leaves. She looked at me in silence for a moment or two and said, "This is the first time I have ever seen you destroy a flower."
"I was not thinking of it," I said; and was about to throw it away when an impulse, born purely of love for what was graceful and sweet, restrained me, and I put it into my pocket. In this the most impressive epoch in my life no sentiment but that of tenderness could hold a place in my heart and mind.
"Well?" she said, still not suspecting. "Tell me."
"Lauretta," I said, taking her hand, which she left willingly in mine, "will you listen to the story of my life?"