“Well, I gave it to that Louis.”
“To Louis? and why do you call him that Louis?”
“Oh, because. I gave him the flower to wear because I thought he was going to take me out that evening. He had promised he would, at least he had sort of promised, and then,—and then—”
“And then he took another young lady,” I finished for her in tones of such sympathy and indignation that she seemed to think she had found a friend.
“Yes,” she said, “he went and took another girl riding on the trolley, after he had said he would take me.”
“Elsa,” I said suddenly, and I fear she thought I had lost interest in her broken heart, “did Louis wear that rose you gave him that night?”
“Yes, the horrid man! I saw it in his coat when he went away.”
“And did he wear it home again?”
“How should I know?” Elsa tossed her head with what was meant to be a haughty air, but which was belied by the blush that mantled her cheek at her own prevarication.
“But you do know,” I insisted, gently; “did he wear it when he came home?”