But the perfume of the violets and the way she looked at me.
Jack stopped, bent over, and gazed into the smouldering coals of the now dying fire.
"Go on, Jack," urged Pitkin in an encouraging tone—they had lived together in the same studio in the Quartier, these two, and knew each other's lives as they did their own pockets,—or each other's, for that matter.
"No, I'm not going on—only waste it on you fellows. That's all. Just one of my memories, my boy. But it comes from wet violets, mark you, not from fry-pans, cold bottles, or hot fish," and he glanced at Marny.
PART III
With Especial Reference to a Girl in a Steamer Chair.
"Don't be angry, Colonel,"—no mortal man knows why Mac calls me "Colonel,"—"but would you mind leaving that red rose you've got in your button-hole outside in the hall, or some place where I can't smell it? Red roses have a singular effect on me." I had come in earlier than the others this afternoon and had found Mac alone.
I looked at Mac in astonishment. Peculiar as he sometimes is, hatred of flowers is not one of his eccentricities.