“New York,” replied Carmen, a little confused as she struggled vainly with her hair. “Oh, I’m not going to fuss with it any more!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Yes, I’ll go with you, and let the maid do it up. Isn’t it long!”
She glanced about her, and then up the avenue toward which the men had been riding. A flush suddenly spread over her face, and she turned and looked searchingly at the man.
“You––you––live––in––there?” she stammered, pointing toward the distant house. “And you are––”
“Yes,” he replied, coming to her assistance, but evidently greatly enjoying her embarrassment, “I am the President.”
Carmen gave a little gasp. “Oh!”
Then her hand stole mechanically to the rose flaming upon her bosom. “I––I guess I know why I bought this now,” she said softly. Quickly unpinning it, she extended it to the man. “I was bringing it to you, wasn’t I?” she laughed. “It’s a ‘President’ rose.”
The picture was one that would have rejoiced an artist: the simple girl, with her tumbled hair and wonderful face, standing there in the glorious sunlight, holding out a single rose to the chief executive of a great nation.
The President bowed low and took the proffered flower. “I thank you,” he said. “It is beautiful. But the one who gives it is far more so.”
Then he bade his companion take the two horses to the stable, and motioned to Carmen to accompany him.