He didn’t think so. He thought it was the most beautiful day that had ever dawned; and he might have said something of the sort if he had not just at that moment seen an awful thing. He stared, appalled, almost unbelieving.
The waitress was coming across the room, carrying his immense bouquet.
“No!” he cried, half rising.
But it was too late; she had come; she presented the bouquet to Miss Selby with a pleased and kindly smile.
“For you!” she announced.
Every one in the room was watching with deep interest.
“See here!” said the young man, in a low and unsteady voice. “I—I only got them because I thought—they—she told me—you had pneumonia. I thought—Give them back to her. Throw them away! I—I’m sorry—”
“Sorry I haven’t got pneumonia?” asked Miss Selby. “It’s too bad, but perhaps I can manage it some other time.”
Her tone and her smile hurt him terribly. He wished that he could snatch the flowers away from her. She was laughing at him again; every one in the room was laughing at him.
And it didn’t occur to him that Miss Selby couldn’t possibly know how he felt, but was a very young and inexperienced creature who was also hurt by his strange manner of giving bouquets. She thought he wanted her to know that, unless she were very ill, he wouldn’t dream of giving her flowers. She was even more hurt than he was.