"You would not, I am sure, have me think of you in the vox et præterea nihil style," he replied. "To be candid, I thought that very matter over the other night." He hesitated, as though waiting for some question, but she did not so much as look at him, and he continued unassisted. "I thought of a flower and its perfume, I wondered which was the more admirable, and—and—I decided that I did not care for tulips."
"But that you did care for me, I suppose?"
"Yes, I decided that."
Miss Raritan threw back her head with a movement indicative of impatience.
"I didn't mean to tell you," he added—"that is, not yet."
They had crossed Broadway and were entering Fifth Avenue. There the stream of carriages kept them a moment on the curb.
"I hope," Tristrem began again, "I hope you are not vexed."
"Vexed at what? No, I am not vexed. I am tired; every other man I meet—There, we can cross now. Besides, I am married. Don't get run over. I am going in that shop."
"You are not married!"
"Yes, I am; if I were a Harvard graduate I would say to Euterpe. As it is, Scales is more definite." She had led him to the door of a milliner, a portal which Tristrem knew was closed to him. "If you care to come and see me," she added, by way of congé, "my husband will probably be at home." And with that she opened the door and passed into the shop.