As he walked up Third Avenue and turned into Union Square, he went into a florist's.
"A bunch of violets, please," he said, and the young man tied up a very small quantity of violets with a very large silk tassel and a lot of green leaves, tin foil, oil paper and wire; putting the whole into a box, which he carefully tied up with more ribbon.
"What a ceremony over a few violets!" thought Von Barwig, as he laid a twenty-five cent piece on the counter.
"One dollar, please," said the young man, surveying the quarter with a somewhat pitying smile.
Von Barwig's heart sank. He had forgotten that it was winter, that flowers were expensive, that coloured cardboard and tin foil and ribbon cost money, too. He searched his pockets and found the necessary dollar, but it was within a few cents of all he had. "They are not too good for her," thought Von Barwig as he carried the box away. He walked up Broadway into Fifth Avenue, and stopped at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. The number he sought was inscribed on the door of a large brownstone mansion with a most imposing entrance, one of those palatial residences that cover the space of four ordinary houses and stamp its owner as a multi-millionaire. As he nervously pulled the bell, he upbraided himself for having dared to think that she was like his child. It was a trick of the fading light, an optical illusion. His reflection was cut short, for the door was opened by a man-servant.
"Have you a card?" inquired the footman, as Von Barwig asked for Miss Stanton.
The old man shook his head.
"Herr Von Barwig is the name; I have an appointment."
"You can wait in there; I'll see if Miss Stanton is in," said the flunky, as he turned on his heel. Such nondescript visitors were most unusual.
"An old person without a card, Mr. Joles," he confided to that individual below stairs; "name Barkwick or something, says he has an appointment. Quite genteel, but—" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.